


Autumn (Season 1)

by girl_with_the_tarot_tattoos



Series: The Garden [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins using magic, Canon-Typical Violence, HP universe cross-over, Highly Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lots of Sex, Multi, Referenced Character Deaths, Referenced Suicide Attempt, again - Sex Demons, bad breakups, because - you know - Sex Demons, dubious coping mechanisms, heavily draws from the historical assassin order, implied/referenced RAI history, lots of Dragon Age references, questionable decision making, referenced abortions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 68,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_with_the_tarot_tattoos/pseuds/girl_with_the_tarot_tattoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call him Shaykh-al-Hashishim.  He is their Elder, and upon his command all of the men of the mountain come out or go in ... they are believers of the word of their elder and everyone everywhere fears them, because they even kill kings.<br/>—Benjamin of Tudela</p><p>	The Assassin Order was founded in 1080 by Hassan-i Sabbah.  Most scholars agree it was active from 1080-1275 before being officially eradicated by Mongol Empire.  Except the scholars are wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Altaïr: brooding in the map room

**Author's Note:**

> This season of the story is already written and is currently being edited so expect weekly(ish) updates. There are 3 additional seasons outlined/partially written. There will probably be more.

              Altaïr leaned against the balcony rail, contemplating Alamūt’s great world map. It took up an entire two story wall, every detail precisely, perfectly, rendered at scale. The map showed the borders of countries marked by pins and black cord – the Assassins had learned long ago that countries waxed and waned like the moon, their borders fluid and ever changing – and different sizes of bronze eagles indicating various Assassin dens and motherhouses. What currently drew Altaïr’s attention, however, were the patches of bloody-red that delineated active areas of armed combat. He frowned as he surveyed France, absently tapping a folded letter against his fingers.  
            The letter had arrived only a few days ago, innocuous and unassuming. The parchment was heavy, good quality, sealed with brilliant blue wax and imprinted with an ouroboros. The letter itself was written in English – according to the scholar who translated it for him – except for one phrase, _nothing is true everything is permitted_ , and even understanding nothing but that one line Altaïr knew something was terribly wrong.  
            He had avoiding having it translated, at first, as though his continued ignorance could undo whatever ill tidings the letter contained. He had examined the letter minutely from every angle, harvesting information with clinical detachment. The parchment was good quality, but not exceedingly expensive. The ink was ground indigo in a copper base – uncommon, perhaps even specially made – and the writer had used a metal nib instead of a quill. It was written in an educated hand, the letters gracefully formed, the address and lines of Arabic slightly thicker and darker then the surrounding text where they had been written more slowly, probably copied from something else, by a young, _female_ , person. _Leliana_.  
            She had written to inform him of the death of his cousin, his cousin’s wife and their two youngest children. He had seen Malik, Sakineh and their children only two years ago, on his way to Italy to escort Ezio’s younger sister, Maria, to Alamūt for training. Children usually made Altaïr uncomfortable, but he had loved playing with Malik’s twin sons, Darim and Cyrus, and his eldest, a daughter named Hadassah, had claimed the seat next to his at every meal, chirping at him excitedly in broken Arabic. He had taught them how to roll out of falls and how to skin an apple; he had also taught Hadassah the words of the creed as she sat in his lap, playing with his blade. _Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Yes uncle, I understand_. Her bones were as delicate as a bird’s but she had been unafraid of him, of what he was and what he represented. Her clear eyed acceptance had been like a warm balm to the withered parts of his cold soul and he began to understand the herewithto unknown desire for children, for family beyond the Order. Malik’s letters had repeatedly assured Altaïr that they were safe, he had said nothing of the creeping suspicion and fermenting hostility surrounding him and his family, and then Malik’s letters stopped coming. Now Altaïr knew why; they were all gone, all except Hadassah, and she was currently beyond his reach.  
            Altaïr ground his teeth and scowled at the world map. The last few days had been nothing but a miserable black well of solitary grief and impotent rage. He had written to his cousin, Ezio, informing him of their shared loss. Ezio’s response had been immediate and contained only one line: _When will we retrieve Hadassah_? Altaïr had no answer for him. Al Mualim, mentor of Alamūt and head of the entire order, had denied permission for Altaïr to retrieve Hadassah. The Muggle and Wizarding worlds were both at war and it was perilous enough for a solitary assassin to travel from Alamūt to England and back, the addition of an untrained child made it virtually suicidal. Ezio was Italian, based in Rome and spoke virtually no English so there was no way he could retrieve Hadassah, even if the Vallen family would agree to turn her over to a complete stranger; Italy and Brittan had officially been at war for well over a year. It almost killed him to admit it, but Hadassah was probably safest without them for the time being.  
            He sighed and pushed back his hood to scrub a hand through his hair. He missed Sirocco. She was somewhere in central Europe, probably gorging herself on Fascists, collecting intelligence for the Order. He had sent her an unabashedly selfish letter, via the Budapest motherhouse, demanding that she return to him; he had not received a response, and he couldn’t even be sure she had gotten his letter in the first place.  
            “Brooding again?” Maria Auditore asked as she settled against the railing beside him. “Is it the girl or the succubus this time, Altaïr?”  
            “What do you want, Maria?” he ground out, not bothering to look away from the map.  
            “I’ve heard a rumor that Al Mualim will appoint his successor soon, that his health is failing.”  
            “I have heard that too,” Altaïr cautiously replied. He had a suspicion where Mari was directing this line of inquiry and that wasn’t a conversation he has particularly interested in having.  
            “There are not many Master Assassins he could name, and he’s always been very fond of you,” Mari cajoled.  
            “He will name Kadija if he wants what’s best for the Order,” Altaïr snapped.  
            “Not you?” Mari looked genuinely surprised.  
            “Not me.”  
            Altaïr scowled at the map, watching the red areas expand and contract, shifting like the desert sands in a storm as violence blossomed and burnt out. He wanted to be in bed with Sirocco, feeling her silky hair slid through his hands like water as he poured out his grief and anger and frustration. He was just Altaïr with her and in return she treated him like a lover, not a meal. He was hungry for mundane intimacies like sharing a simple meal and combing the tangles from her hair after they bathed.  
            “- but you were the youngest to reach the rank of Master in the whole history of the Order! You have trained as an assassin your _whole life_ , how could you _not_ be the best choice?” Mari demanded, plucking at this sleeve.  
            “I want something in my life that is actually mine,” he savagely burst out. “I have already given everything else to the Order; I don’t want to be Al Mualim.”  
            “You were born to be Al Mualim, Altaïr. I can’t believe you’re turning your back on that for some woman. _Jesus H. Christ_ , she’s not even _human_ ,” Mari said angrily.  
            “Do not talk to me about things you hardly understand, _novice_ ,” Altaïr snapped, tone low and hard.  
            “I’m not a novice! I’m a fidā'ī, just like you,” she shot back, color flaming high in her cheeks, her hair practically cracking with indignation. “How dare you pull rank on me Altaïr. How dare you.”  
            “A fidā'ī just like me?” he scoffed. “Tell me, Maria, how many have you killed? How many lives have you severed with your blade?”  
            She flushed and looked everywhere but him, avoiding his eyes.  
            “You are nothing like me,” he snarled. “And it would serve you well to remember that.” He turned back to the map with a heavy scowl.  
            “Three,” she blurted out. “I’ve killed three.”  
            “Three?” he repeated, skeptically arching a manicured brow. Sirocco like to pluck his eyebrows, nothing dramatic, but it pleased her, and pleasing her pleased him so he allowed it. It wasn’t exactly a secret, per se, but he was nonetheless relieved that Mari didn’t know about it.  
            “Yes, three,” she hesitated. “When they came for me and my mother. Two I killed outright, the third died later from his wounds.”  
            “So you’ve killed two,” he corrected.  
            “Three. The third one still died,” she stubbornly insisted.  
            “He was more likely the doctor’s victim than yours,” he replied pragmatically. “But even if you have killed three, I had killed at least twice that number at your age.”  
            “I’ve killed more than Ezio had; he’d only killed twice at my age.”  
            “And yet he is a Master Assassin, while you are not,” Altaïr replied sardonically. “You are overreaching yourself, little cousin. Have patience, your time will come.”  
            “It would come quicker if you were Al Mualim,” she insisted.  
            “In that you are mistaken. I would only hold you back; keep you safe. Go bother Kadija, Maria. She’s less inured to your flattery and, inshallah, she will be Al Mualim,” he said distractedly, waiving her away as he pocketed the letter. “I have ablutions and prayer to attend to.”  
            “God doesn’t listen to the prayers of people like us,” Mari shot after him.  
            “Yet I will pray all the same,” he replied over his shoulder.  
            Mari hurried to fall into step beside him. He caught himself right before he sighed in annoyance. He didn’t understand what she wanted from him, in all honesty, he suspected _she_ didn’t even know exactly what she wanted from him; she just pushed and pushed.  
            “Does your god still hear your prayers, Altaïr?” she asked softly, arms wrapped tightly around her torso. “There’s nothing but silence when I pray.”  
            Altaïr rubbed his tongue against the inner rim of his bottom teeth as he considered his reply. He could hear the despair in her voice, how lost and alone she felt; she was teetering along the razor’s edge where he’d seen so many others fall. His chest felt tight at the thought of losing Mari, too.  
            “Do you know how Damascus steel is made, little cousin?” he finally asked, running a distracted eye along the reliquary statues of master assassins lining the hallway. He stopped in front of the statue of the great Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad – his namesake – and contemplated the graven features. Mari was skilled – he’d spent hours training her himself – but impulsive and reckless, even more so than her brother Ezio. He didn’t blame their uncle Mario for not training her as well, for not wanting to be responsible for the fate of his dead brother’s only daughter and youngest surviving child. She and Ezio took after their mother – Altaïr’s aunt, also named Maria – the only one of grandfather Cyrus’ three daughters rebellious enough to settle outside the kingdom with a husband of her own choosing.  
            Mari sidled up beside him and frowned as she studied the statue.  
            “Not really. What does Damascus steel have to do with this?”  
            She was so close her robes brushed his, her breath sweet from the rosewater candy she’d eaten and his skin fairly burned under the intensity of her scrutiny. He took a deliberately slow breath and tilted his chin as he contemplated the reliquary’s cold, empty eyes.  
            “It starts as iron ore, dug from the earth. Then it is placed in a crucible, together with sand and glass and bone, before it is thrust into an inferno to burn away all the impurities,” he told her, voice pitched low and meticulously controlled. “And what emerges is a steel ingot, metal made from dirt.”  
            Mari shifted her weight impatiently beside him but held her tongue.  
            He smiled slightly and continued. “But it is not yet finished. It must be heated and hammered many times, over a long period, before it becomes a perfect blade.”  
            “I’m being forged; I understand that, but am I also to be forsaken?” she asked with a sigh.  
            “The hammer and anvil take many forms, Maria, and sometimes blades crack even when worked by the most skilled smiths. Sometimes all the impurities cannot be drawn out.” He slid a sidelong look at her. “That is not in our nature, little cousin. We are true, pure, steel; it is in our blood. But even the best steel can shatter under an impatient hammer.”  
            “Always patience,” she said sulkily, her usual fire and defiance subdued. “An unused blade will eventually rust from disuse, you know.”  
            “Only an _untended_ blade rusts,” he sharply corrected her. “A well-tended blade holds its luster and edge forever.”  
            “Not forever, Altaïr. Eventually everything crumbles back into dust.”  
            She dug the toe of her boot against the floor, a frown puckering her brow, and he was suddenly struck by how young she really was, unsullied and eager for her master’s sash; it made him feel old beyond the eight years that separated them. He impulsively hooked a finger under her chin and brushed his lips across her forehead in an affectionate kiss. Her eyes widened in surprise.  
            “Go to Kadija, Maria. There is a contract in Istanbul; tell her I sent you.”  
            She beamed at him. “Oh, thank you, Altaïr! I’ll make you and Ezio proud, I promise.”  
            “Promise to come back is all I ask,” he told her sternly, already half regretting his impulsive decision.  
            “I will, of course I will,” she chirped, dancing away, as though afraid of him changing his mind and calling her back. “The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll return. Thank you cousin!”  
            He sighed and turned back to his namesake’s reliquary with a frown. The contract in Istanbul was fairly straight forward and low risk; he knew she’d be fine, but a vague worry still squeezed his heart. Abruptly he started down the hall, doubling back the way he had come, towards the baths. He needed to wash a few of the accumulated layers of anxiety and grief from his body before bed and he suddenly felt so tired. 


	2. Altaïr: intro Sirocco

            There was someone in his room. His hand had found the heavy dagger kept beside his bedding before his mind was awake enough to process why he had reached for it in the first place and it was drawn and ready as he sat up in one fast, fluid motion.  
            “Peace, Altaïr.”  
            “Sirocco?” he croaked uncertainly, still not quite fully awake, blade frozen in mid-air. It was the way she pronounced his name that struck sparks of recognition. Sirocco’s Arabic was flawless and her Farsi perfect; her accent in both was utterly unremarkable. So unremarkable, in fact, that it had taken an unsettling amount of time for him to realize how strange that really was. The only exception to her otherwise seamless accents was how she said his name; no one pronounced it quite the archaic way she did. The difference was subtle – he was probably the only one who noticed – but it was there and he would recognize it anywhere.  
            “Yes, my love.” She leaned forward, eyes glittering in the starlight from his open window, skin creamy pale as sweet almond milk. She was wearing one of his kurtas and her hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders and down her back, still slightly damp from her recent bath.  
            “Siro,” he breathed, dropping the knife. Somewhere the back of his mind registered the sound of it clattering against the tile floor as he pulled her towards him. “Siro,” he breathed again, voice nearly drown out by the sound of ripping cloth as he tore open the kurta to bare her shoulders before burying his face against her neck. “I’ve needed you so much.”  
            “And so I have come,” she soothed, slithering free from the ruins of his shirt to wrap her arms around him.  
            He inhaled deeply, savoring her familiar scent of Madonna lilies and myrrh as she held him. The weight of her body was reassuringly solid in his lap as he wound her silky hair through his fingers and pulled her closer.  
            “I have been so alone,” he murmured against her skin, now dampened with tears he had no memory of shedding, ashamed of the faintly plaintive note that had wormed its way into his tone.  
            But you have not been alone, my love, here, in the heart of the order. And until only this evening you had Maria with you,” she replied, voice soft and soothing, her breath warm against the outer shell of his ear.  
            “There is nothing more lonely than grieving while surrounded by those who are not,” he replied.  
            “My dearest love,” she murmured, lips velvety soft against his temple before guiding his mouth to hers. “Unburden your heart,” she coaxed between hot syrupy kisses.  
            He pressed her back to his mattress and settled beside her, pillowing his cheek on the soft curve of her shoulder and idly playing with her hair.  
            “I should have known something was wrong. I should have seen this danger,” he choked out.  
            “Peace, Altaïr. How could you know what Malik himself did not?” she murmured, soothing as cool water in the mid-day heat.  
            “I should have been there,” he whispered against her skin, tears stinging his eyes.  
            “Your duty lies here, my love,” she reminded him gently as she carded her fingers through his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his body more closely to hers.  
            “I should have saved them,” he whispered, hardly trusting his voice not to betray the depth of his guilt and grief.  
            “Altaïr.” She pulled away from him and cradled his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Stop this. Stop this now. You are only one man and your burdens are heavy enough. Let the dead carry the dead, my love.”  
            He pulled away, sitting up and turning his back to her. While he desperately craved her company and comfort, he was ashamed to be seen so weak.  
            “Why did you send for me only to turn away?” she asked. He felt the mattress shift beneath her weight as she moved behind him. “Why do you hide your face, my love?” Her arms slid around him to press her hands to his chest, just above his painfully thumping heart.  
            “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered, running his hand across her arm and intertwining their fingers.  
            “Like what?” She pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Like a man?” she murmured against his neck as she leaned over him. Her teeth were sharp as she nipped his earlobe. “I would not want you to be any other way.” She traced the tip of her tongue up his cheek and pressed a kiss against the crest of his cheekbone.  
            “Weak.” He turned his face from her. “It’s weakness to be ruled by emotion.”  
            “Altaïr,” her grip tightened, pressing him more firmly against herself. “It takes great strength to love as deeply as you do. This pain you feel now, it comes from that love and the force of it would crush a lesser man.”  
            “It _is_ crushing me,” he whispered, struggling to express the darkness and overwhelming grief he felt. “I’m drowning, suffocating, beneath its weight.” His grip tightened on their intertwined fingers. Words had ever been easy for him, he was much more comfortable with silence and violence; the strength of his emotions sometimes frightened him.  
            “Then put aside your foolish pride and let me help you, my love,” she scolded him gently.  
            “Can you help me?” he asked, ashamed of how much need bled into his tone, as he allowed her to press him back down onto the bed.  
            “Of course.” She slid her hands down his torso, catching at the waistband of his zir-šalvar before curling her fingers under the fabric and easing them down his hips. His breath quickened as she pulled the garment off and dropped it to the floor. A moan slid between his teeth as she lightly skimmed her fingertips up his thighs; he desperately wanted to please her, but his muscles ached and his tongue felt heavy and he was just so very tired.  
            “Do you need to feed?” he asked softly and felt her body tense at the question.  
            “I can wait.” She looked up at him sharply, her eyes luminous molten copper.  
            “I, I want you to,” he murmured, tongue darting out to moisten his lips nervously. Some part of him had known she wouldn’t like him offering himself to her in that way, but he couldn’t stand the thought of having to face another night alone with his ghosts and grief, of trying not to think about the other men she fed upon and how irrationally jealous he was that they were with her while he slept alone; he needed her and he didn’t care why she stayed, just that she did.  
            “No,” she told him firmly. “Our relationship does not extend to that.” She slithered up his body until they were face to face, noses nearly touching. “Why are you trying to offer me this?”  
            He swallowed uncomfortably, mesmerized, captivated, by her beauty. “I want to give you something. Satisfy you. I don’t think I can make love to you properly, like you deserve, right now,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to leave.”  
            “Altaïr, I came to be with _you_ , because you need me, not because I want something and will leave unless I get it.” She smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. “Sometimes I forget how new this still is to you, my assassin. How inexperienced you really are.”  
            He frowned; he’d never liked being teased. “Inexperienced at what?” he asked.  
            She was his first – his only – lover and he often worried that she would grow tired of his unsophisticated caresses and eager enthusiasm. It took considerable mental fortitude to not imagine all the things she might be doing, how many other lovers – whose skills in that particular area far eclipsed his own – she might be visiting. He didn’t allow himself to think on it, and he willfully remained ignorant of how often – and, involving what, exactly – her feeding entailed.  
            “At being loved.” She brushed her thumb over the cushion of his lower lip. “Expressing and accepting love are skills that are learned and require much practice. Contrary to popular belief, loving and being loved are not things one is born knowing how to do.”  
            “I’ve had an excellent instructor,” he murmured, nuzzling against her hand like a cat.  
            She laughed softly and pressed her thumb between his lips; he sucked it and squirmed as her other hand roved progressively further down his body.  
            “Your flattery has improved, at least,” she teased.  
            “I’m tired, Siro,” he halfheartedly protested as her hand slid lower still, ashamed both at his body’s response to her when his grief was still so fresh and that he wasn’t more responsive to her.  
            “Yes, my love,” she murmured, rubbing the palm of her hand against his hip, fingers skimming the muscular lines of his external obliques.  
            “I can try to pleasure you,” he offered, mentally cursing himself as he fumbled between her thighs, fingers finally sinking into where she was hot and slick, trying to touch her how she had taught him; he hated how poorly he performed for her when he felt exhausted or stressed. “Can this satisfy you?” he asked huskily, feeling her inner coils shifting, tightening under, around, his fingers. Her eyes drifted shut with a sigh as he stroked inside her, his breath unsteady against her breasts as he drew the bud of her nipple between his lips. He flinched when a barb scraped along the tender side of his finger as her body rippled around him.  
            “ _You_ satisfy me, Altaïr,” she replied, eyes smoldering like coals. “Being with you feeds a hunger in my soul. I want to feel how I feel with you forever.”  
            “I want that, too,” he murmured thickly, tongue swollen and heavy in his mouth, dizzy, drowning in her eyes.  
            “I know, my love.” She trailed burning kisses up his chest. “Shall I hold you, while you sleep?”  
            “I would like that,” he murmured, tracing the curves of her body, her breasts improbably full and high above the taper of her waist and flare of her hips. Her skin was warm, rose-petal smooth beneath his possessive, exploring hands; the searing heat of her mouth against his chest, the base of his throat, the underside of his jaw, flooded through his body to settle heavily in his groin. He parted his lips to her kisses, welcoming her tongue in his mouth as she cradled his face in her hands. Everything with her felt so good, so right.  
            He didn’t care when she slithered something down his throat, filling him with a warm, heavy, glowing feeling as he drifted to sleep in her arms.

 

            He awoke alone, arm stretched out searching for Sirocco in his empty bed; the place she should have been lying was still warm. He rolled over onto his back, rubbing his eyes with a sigh, noting the ache in his loins – which Ezio had once laughingly informed him was referred to as ‘blue balls’ – and wondering where Sirocco had gone. Aside from that particular ache, he felt surprisingly good – well rested and strong – much better than he had felt since the letter arrived. _Actually…_ He bolted upright when he noticed that the heavy drapes had been drawn on his windows; he had intentionally left them open when he went to bed so that the morning’s first light would wake him for the early morning training he was supposed to do with a handful of novices. He rolled out of bed towards the closest window, flinging open the blinds and staggering back at the sudden, bright sunlight that streamed in; it was well after dawn. His blood roared in his ears and sparks dappled his vision; he’d never been late for training, not even once from the time he’d joined the Order as a novice until now, and, from the height of the sun, he was very, very late.  
            He grabbed for the closest thing he could reach to cover his nakedness as the latch of his door released with a barely audible click. The first thing to come through the door was a laden breakfast try carried by one of the Order’s heavily tattooed house elves, followed by Sirocco, who arched a brow at the richly embroidered throw pillow he was holding over his groin but let it pass without comment as she directed the elf to place the tray on a low table. She made a brief gesture of gratitude, to which the elf responded with a low bow before disappearing with a loud crack.  
            “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble; I don’t have time for breakfast,” he said stiffly with an anxious look towards the door to make sure it had been closed. His treacherous stomach chose that moment to growl loudly.  
            Sirocco smiled serenely as she removed her veil. “You have time my love.”  
            “No, I was supposed to be –” he insisted, eyes hungrily following her movements as she unpinned her hair.  
            “You will not be performing any of your regular duties for the next several days. I have already spoken with Jamil,” she informed him as she unfastened her robes.  
            “Spoken with him about what?” he asked, voice sharp with alarm. He knew she was only trying to help, but he would have preferred she had checked with him before saying anything to the Mentor.  
            “Regarding my desire to have your undivided attentions all for myself.” She dropped her robes to the floor and her smile widened at the way his fingers convulsively gripped the pillow he was still holding tighter.  
            “And Al Mualim just agreed to your request?” he queried suspiciously.  
            “My good will is valuable to the Order,” she replied as she drifted towards him. “He also knows you have taken this loss very badly; he is concerned for you. He thinks that I can help, and Kadija agrees.”  
            Altaïr reminded himself to unclench his jaw. He _did_ want her here with him; being with her helped, it made things feel better.  
            “That must be new,” he commented with forced lightness and a quick jerk of his chin towards the slip she was wearing. It was a faint blush pink, trimmed in delicate handmade needle lace and cut on the bias, the fabric silky and slinky.  
            “It is,” she confirmed, sliding one delicate strap off her creamy shoulder. His lips tingled with desire to taste her shoulders, the vulnerable back of her neck.  
            “Where did it come from?” he asked lightly, even though he knew she didn’t particularly like him asking those sort of questions.  
            “From a Bohemian aristocrat with far too much money – which he is now _sharing_ with the Order.” She rubbed the filmy fabric between her fingers and watched him from beneath the fans of her lashes with a smile. “It would have been bad form to refuse such a gift. Are you jealous, my love?”  
            His throat tightened. _Very Jealous_.  
            “Not at all,” he managed to rasp.  
            “Liar.” She snatched the pillow away from him and slowly ran her eyes over his body with a low-throated hum of approval. His skin burned, hot with equal parts embarrassment and desire, under her leisurely scrutiny; he resisted the urge to squirm or break the stretching silence. She closed the scant distance between them, her thigh pressed against his, stroking, cupping, massaging him gently.  
            “Liar,” she repeated softly, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. “You are very jealous of that little hollow man.”  
            “I want you all to myself. I miss you terribly when you’re away,” he admitted, sliding an arm around her waist, pulling her more firmly against himself.  
            She nudged the underside of his jaw with the tip of her nose. “I am already all yours.”  
            “You know what I mean,” he insisted.  
            “We have discussed this, Altaïr. You have as much cause to be jealous as I have to be of the lamb you had for dinner last night.” Her breath was warm against his chest.  
            “That’s not the same and you know it. I wasn’t intimate with my meal before I consumed it,” he blurted out, regretting his words the moment they left his mouth.  
            He felt her body tense. “You seem to be in a particularly _combative_ mood this morning, my love; shall I just go now?” she asked with chilling pleasantness as she stepped back from him.  
            “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I don’t know why I said it,” he replied quickly, reaching for her. “Don’t leave. I’m so sorry, please stay.” She felt stiff in his arms.  
            “Eat your breakfast, before it gets cold,” she murmured, nudging him towards the tray.  
            “Stay with me,” he insisted, touching her face gently.  
            “And we’ll have no more talk of these things?” she pressed.  
            “No more, I promise,” he assured her. He brushed his lips against hers in a tentative kiss; her mouth was soft but unresponsive.  
            “Go eat your breakfast,” she repeated, punctuating her command with a hard stinging slap to his backside. He should not have found it as arousing as he did; she noticed.  
            “I have other hungers that need to be fed first,” he murmured against her skin as he slid the slip down her body to puddle on the floor around her feet. She was naked beneath the slip, her bare skin glowing in the bright morning light. He ached for her, to be inside her, acutely. “Please Siro, it hurts.” He pressed a saliva-slick kiss between her thighs, the tip of his tongue tentative and exploring.  
            She sighed. “Then we must temper your pain to pleasure, my love,” she replied softly, carding a hand though his hair.  
            He would have been embarrassed for anyone else to have heard the sound he made as he pulled her down to the thick-piled Persian rug with him. He parted her thighs with his knee, eagerly anticipating the wet-hot clutch of her body, the blissful release of pressure from his aching loins.  
            “Slowly Altaïr, gently,” she admonished. “One does not force a flower to bloom.”  
            “Yes. Yes, of course,” he replied, gulping back his impatience. He had too much energy, his body trembled uncontrollably with need as he struggled to still his shaking hand to digitally penetrate her. “What’s wrong with me, Siro?” he mumbled, shaking his head gingerly to clear his hazy thoughts.  
            “Nothing, my love,” she soothed as she stoked his face. “Lay back and let me take care of you. Let me make you feel better.”  
            He complied with an inarticulate murmurer, breath hissing between his teeth when she straddled his hips and sheathed him. He felt the coils shift inside her, accommodating his penetration. There was a momentary sharp stinging sensation as her barbs hooked into his shaft, just below the head, pulling him deeper with every grinding roll of her hips against his. _Feels so good, so right_. He repeated her name like a prayer, a plea, against the luscious bounce of her breasts as she rode him. His orgasm surprised him, almost painful in its intensity.  
            “Peace, Altaïr,” she soothed, lips velvety soft against his temple as he struggled to catch his breath, still almost agonizingly hard inside her.  
            “Tell me you love me and only me,” he suddenly demanded, rearing up to tumble her beneath him.  
            “I do love you, Altaïr. Always. Only you. Forever,” she gasped, arching her back and lifting her hips to meet his thrusts, ankles crossing over his lower back.  
            “Tell me how good I feel inside you,” he demanded again over the wet slap of skin on skin as he pounded into her.  
            “Feels so good. _You_ feel so good. So right. Want this for-forever.” Her cheeks were flushed and lips puffy, swollen, from his crushing, bruising kisses and still he wanted more. His hips stuttered out of rhythm as he neared his second peak. She came with a sharp keening cry, heels digging into the small of his back, her climax rippling through the coils surrounding him inside her. He followed with a shout and collapsed, exhausted and spent, in her arms.  
            She kissed him gently. “Your breakfast is getting cold, my love.”  
            “I’m too tired for breakfast,” he mumbled, nuzzling against her breasts.  
            “But still you must eat it, my love. You have grown thin with grief and your eyes are shadowed. Get comfortable in your bed and I will feed you,” she coaxed between syrupy kisses as she nudged him towards the bed.  
            “But I’m not hungry,” he grumbled as he complied. Sirocco came and propped him upright with pillows, adjusting the blankets with gentle hands before balancing the breakfast tray on his lap and settling beside him.  
            “Eat, Altaïr,” she commanded, pressing a fork into his hand and guiding a bite to his mouth. He haltingly consumed his breakfast in this manner, intensely relieved when it was finished and Sirocco removed the tray and cuddled against him. He turned to bury his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply, savoring her familiar scent of Madonna lilies and myrrh as he drifted back to sleep in her arms.

 

            When he awoke again it was early afternoon. Sirocco was asleep beside him, limbs intertwined with his own. His loins ached, heavy and distracting, which, should not have been possible in light of the _two_ orgasms he’d had only a few hours earlier. He reached down between them and stroked the entrance to her body with a careful fingertip. She shifted and parted her legs with a sleepy murmur. He toyed with various ideas – going down on her, riding her – but in the end he let her sleep and slithered out of bed, carefully so as to not wake her. The Turkish coffee she’d had brought up with his breakfast had gone mostly cold. He poured a cup and savored the dark, sweet, slightly gritty coffee while leaning a shoulder against the window frame lost in his thoughts. She must have done something, given him something, to ignite this burning need. He remembered touching her, drawing out her orgasm with just his fingers, their kisses, during and after, how hot her mouth felt on his body, against his jaw, in his mouth and – vaguely, hazily – down his throat. _What has she done to me?  
_             Absently he rubbed at the waxy scar just below his seventh rib, a memento of one of his early contracts. The target had been a particularly loathsome individual, an infamous procurer of opiates and flesh in the red blind district of Cairo, who paid for his personal harem of pretty young boys by selling women’s bodies. He’d dispatched the target and was on his way out when one of the pimp’s catamites surprised him with a broken bottle. He lost his temper during the ensuing scuffle after the bottle’s jagged edge made contact with his ribcage. There are worse things than misplaced loyalty, but the boy had gotten too good of a look at him and his body was all the Cairo police needed to write the whole incident off as an unfortunate murder-suicide. Al Mualim had reprimanded him for recklessness upon his return.  
            He drifted back to the mostly empty breakfast tray and poured himself more tepid coffee, it would have been perfect if it was still hot, and frowned as he reconstructed the previous evening’s events. He winced at the recollection of his rebuffed offer for her to feed on him – he really should not have done that, he knew she wouldn’t like it – and was embarrassed by his tears and lackluster sexual performance. However, none of those activities accounted for his current discomfort. He finished his coffee and dumped the dredges in the cup’s saucer. He’d never put much stock in divination.  
            “Altaïr,” Sirocco murmured drowsily, “come back to bed, my love. My arms are empty without you.”  
            He glanced over, his reflexive smile at the sound of her voice fading slightly as he scrutinized her more closely. She looked unwell – with papery dry lips and an ashen complexion, dim eyes and lank hair – and her movements were weak, uncoordinated.  
            “Siro, what’s the matter?” he asked anxiously, springing to her side. “What can I do?”  
            “Nothing is the matter, my love,” she replied, catching hold of his hands and tugging him closer. “I am just tired is all. Come, lie with me, Altaïr. Make love to me in the warm sunlight, I know you want to.”  
            He did want to, badly. She sighed and spread her legs invitingly as he pulled away the blankets. He touched her carefully, feather light like the brush of butterfly wings, just like she’d taught him. She gasped and writhed beneath his fingertips, feminine viscera twitching invitingly, and he was uncomfortably hard for her but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. He leaned over, wedging her thighs wide open with his shoulders, and exhaled slowly against her sex, like he was fogging a mirror. The sound she made was positively inhuman; satisfying. Yes, he very badly wanted to make love to her.  
            “You’ve done something to me,” he murmured against her flesh, tongue darting out for a quick exploratory taste, his own pelvic floor muscles twitching with desire, dangerously close to orgasm. “And you’ve hurt yourself doing it,” he continued, plunging two fingers inside her, grazing her clit with the pad of his thumb. “Tell me what you’ve done, Siro.”  
            “Only what is necessary for us to be together, forever,” she gasped, hands sliding up her body to squeeze her breasts, pinching her nipples into pebbled hard points.  
            “I don’t understand,” he replied, sitting back on his heels, brow furrowed. “Of course we’ll be together forever; we love each other, don’t we?”  
            He couldn’t tell if the sound she made was a laugh or sob.  
            “We have different definitions of what ‘forever’ means, my love,” she told him sadly as she propped herself up in her elbows.  
            “I’ll love you for the rest of my life, isn’t that enough?” he asked, voice raw with frustration and desire.  
            “No,” she replied bluntly, pulling him down on top of her. “I want you to love me for the rest of _my_ life.”  
            “I want to!” he burst out. “You know I want that so much, but it’s not poss–”  
            “Yes, it is, Altaïr,” she interrupted him. “We Maraas feed on energy, on life; just because we usually take it for ourselves doesn’t mean we are not capable of transferring it to others.”  
            It felt like all the air had suddenly been sucked from his lungs. “This, this lust, you _did this_ to me?”  
            “I gave you energy, to keep you young and strong. Because of what I am, because succubi primarily feed on _sexual_ energy, that is how it manifests,” she explained, cupping his face gently. “I cannot stand to watch you slowly die, Altaïr, and I could not risk you declining my offer; I love you too much.”  
            “I love you too, Siro. So much,” he assured her. “But this _hurts_ …”  
            “I gave you too much at once, I did not know–”  
            “You’ve never done this before?”  
            “No,” she said softly, caressing his cheek. “You are the only person I want to spend forever–”  
            He silenced her with a kiss, aggressive and desperate, which she returned with full force.  
            “Make love to me, Altaïr,” she broke their kiss to demand breathlessly. “Right now.”  
            He was more than happy to comply.


	3. Altaïr: discussion with Kadija

            Altaïr paused to slowly roll his head from one shoulder to the other, stretching out the muscles in his neck, before he finished getting dressed. Even though he had really pushed himself, he hardly felt his usual post-training fatigue. Depending on when Sirocco turned up, he might go for a long run later, probably just after sunset so he wouldn’t have to deal with the sun in his eyes. He pulled on a clean kurta and raked a hand through his damp hair as he stepped into his časbak. After a final quick glance to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, he ducked around a pair of disciples and headed out of the bathhouse. Kadija was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, bouncing on her heels impatiently.  
            “You always take forever, Altaïr,” she huffed. “What are you even doing that takes so long?”  
            “I do not,” he protested. “How do you shower and change so fast?”  
            “Magic,” she teased, leaning over to flick his ear. He flinched away at the last second and she didn’t give chase.  
            “You seem to be feeling better,” she observed with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes as she passed through the open doorway into the bright afternoon sun.  
            He shrugged and fell into step beside her. “I guess so. It doesn’t feel totally real, you know, that they’re all just… gone.” He shrugged again and kicked at a pebble in his path with a disinterested swipe of his foot. “I keep expecting to get a letter from him apologizing for not writing sooner, or something. I don’t know.”  
            Kadija bumped her shoulder against his. “Come to my room for tea and sympathy?”  
            “Alright,” he sighed. “But just the tea, hold the sympathy. I haven’t seen your new carpet yet, anyway.”  
            “It’s beautiful. You’re going to be jealous,” she assured him smugly as they jogged up the dormitory stairs.  
            “Oh?”  
            “I designed the pattern, had it woven in Afghanistan by some _millennia_ old carpet weaving guild. It cost a king’s ransom,” she told him as she opened her chamber door with a flourish. “I hung it on the wall because it made my stomach hurt to think of some novice ruining it with spilled coffee if it was just lying on the floor.”  
            It was a beautiful carpet; he stepped closer for a better look while Kadija rang for tea. It was covered in cream arabesque against a rich, indigo blue background, a dazzling combination of sinuous floral vines and sacred geometry, bordered by the Creed – rendered in delicate calligraphy and bold, poppy red, thinly outlined in gold. He heard the loud crack that signaled the arrival of one of the Order’s house elves.  
            “Tea for two, please,” Kadija ordered. “Any special requests, Altaïr?”  
            He traced the center motif’s curves and flourishes, the carpet’s pile silky-plush against his calloused fingertips.  
            “Altaïr?” Kadija prodded his ribs to get his attention. “It there anything you’d particularly like with the tea?”  
            “No,” he murmured, digging his fingers into the carpet. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”  
            She sighed. “The usual then, please.”  
            The elf left with a loud crack.  
            “You like it?” Kadija asked over her shoulder, pushing back her hood as she walked over to her mirror. He could hear the smile in her voice.  
            “Your design is amazing; it’s beautiful, Kadija, truly,” he breathed drinking in the delicate details. He glanced over and noticed she was scowling at her reflection in the mirror. “You’re growing your hair out?” he asked with an inquisitive tilt of his head. “Why?”  
            “I’ve been thinking about trying another weave,” she replied, scrubbing her hands through her short hair.  
            He wrinkled his nose. “Why? You’ve hated it every time you’ve done it. You always say it makes your scalp hurt and then you complain about it itching.”  
            She growled in annoyance and stalked away from the mirror. “Maybe sometimes I like to pretend to be pretty,” she snapped, straightening the carved wooden animal figurines clustered across the top of her dresser.  
            “But… you _are_ pretty,” he replied, burying both hands into the plush pile of the carpet. He wanted to rub his cheek against it, smell the slightly vinegary tang of the dyes, but resisted; it wasn’t polite.  
            “Stop.”  
            “Why won’t you believe that I think you’re beautiful?” he asked pushing away from the wall to cautiously approach her.  
            His mother had adopted Kadija when he was three and she was six; they’d grown up together, fought, played and studied together. She was fast and strong and utterly ruthless, yet still approachable and charming, with a rapier wit and a gilded tongue. He thought she was beautiful in all the ways a new blade was beautiful – strong and sleek, skillfully forged and deadly. She was beautiful when she killed, her face as serene and distant as a vengeful goddess, like a feather weightlessly suspended above the teaming void, more beautiful in those moments than anyone else he had known – except his mother – and he couldn’t understand why she didn’t see that.  
            “Because it’s impossible,” she burst out, turning to face him. “You’re involved with the living, breathing, embodiment of a sexual fantasy – and _she_ looks nothing like _me_.”  
            He rocked his weight back on his heels and eyed her warily. “So?”  
            She dropped her face into her hands with a sigh. “So, she’s pale and curvy and delicate, and I’m, I’m dark and flat-chested and _sturdy_. And there’s no way anyone could think both of us are attractive.” Her voice, slightly muffled by her hands sounded resigned and a little sad.  
            He rolled his weight from one hip to the other as he considered what she had said, trying to ignore how much it hurt to hear the unhappiness in her voice, and found her reasoning flawed.  
            “That has to be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he said, slowly sliding a half step back from her, just out of immediate reach. “Comparing yourself to Sirocco is like comparing a lioness to a, um, a unicorn.” He grimaced, hating how poorly he was expressing himself. Not for the first time he wished he could be as eloquent as Malik or charming like Ezio.  
            She tilted her chin to peer at him incredulously through her fingers, but any response she may have made was forestalled by a resounding crack announcing the arrival of a house elf bearing a heavily loaded tea tray.  
            “Thank you,” Kadija sighed, tiredly rubbing her face and then motioning to the low dining table. “Please set it there.”  
            Altaïr hesitated a moment, watching the elf deposit the tray on the table before he strode over to the seating cushions stacked against the wall and grabbed cushions for Kadija and himself. The elf bowed respectfully to both of them before disappearing with a crack as he approached the table. He placed the cushions carefully and turned to face Kadija.  
            “Will you pour?” he asked motioning to the tea, tone meticulously neutral.  
            She huffed a short laugh and approached the table, shaking her head at him. “Don’t repeat that comparison to Sirocco.”  
            “Why not?” he asked, stepping out of his časbak and settling comfortably onto his cushion.  
            “Because you compared her to a horse,” she replied, setting the cups upright and carefully pouring the spicy black tea.  
            “Not a horse,” he protested, propping his elbow on the edge of the table and resting his chin on his hand. “A rare, powerfully magical being; it’s flattering.”  
            “One who is often mistaken for a horse,” she replied. “She won’t be flattered, believe me.”  
            Altaïr sighed. “If you say so.” He watched Kadija set down the teapot and pick up a spoon and the pitcher of goat’s milk sweetened with honey.  
            “I do,” she replied, pouring the milk over the back of the spoon into their tea. “You should also try to be nicer to Mari, while you’re at it.”  
            “I’m plenty nice to Maria,” he retorted, pulling the bowl of black olives closer to himself.  
            Kadija arched an eyebrow and pushed his tea towards him. “I didn’t say you _weren’t_ nice to her; I said you should try to be _nicer_. There’s a difference.”  
            He frowned, rolling the leathery meat of an olive between his fingers, checking for any remaining pit fragments before he ate it. “I’ve changed my mind; I’d rather have sympathy than a lecture.”  
            Kadija hummed noncommittally and studied him coolly, lips curved with the barest hint of a smile. He watched her watch him as the silence unfurled between them with comfortable familiarity, unhurried and easy.  
            He understood what Kadija meant when she said she wasn’t pretty; she wasn’t pretty in the way Hollywood starlets and pinup girls were – soft curves and innocence, sweet voiced and fragile – like delicate hothouse flowers, and just as useless. No, she wasn’t pale and curvy; her skin was dark and satiny-smooth, stretched across sinew and sculpted hard muscle, broad shoulders and strong, capable hands, she had beautiful dark eyes, sharp and slanted like a lioness’ and wide, impossibly high, cheekbones. Kadija was more like datura than an orchid.  
            “We should go to Doshan Tappeh,” she said before taking a careful sip of her tea. “We haven’t gone to the Zoological Garden for our birthdays yet.”  
            Altaïr frowned as he flicked a piece of dried rosemary off the roasted almond he was about to eat. “I’m too old for birthday trips to the Zoo.”  
            “So what does that make me?” she asked, watching him over the rim of her teacup.  
            Altaïr smiled and reached over to gently trace the scarred over gunshot wound on her hand, a memento from an early contract. “My beautiful big sister.”  
            “You’ve already eaten all of the olives, haven’t you?”  
            He glanced at the bowl. “I saved the last one for you.”  
            “You’re a terrible liar.” She smiled as she took the last olive and ate it slowly. “Drink your tea.”  
            Obediently he lifted his cup to his lips. It tasted spicy and sweet and he loved the consistent sameness of it, the way Kadija made it taste the way his mother used to make it for them when they were children. He set the empty cup down on the table. Kadija sighed and curled her fingers in a beckoning gesture; he pushed the cup over to her with a sheepish smile.  
            “Only for you, Altaïr,” she sighed. “Anyone else has to pour their own damn tea.”  
            “Thank you, Kadija.” He considered the plate of sabzi khordan before picking out a few dried barberries and a spring of mint. “I have to change my instructions.” He crushed the mint leaves between his fingers, releasing their pungent, crisp scent.  
            “To provide for Hadassah?” she asked as she slid his tea towards him and swatted his hand away from the plate of sabzi khordan when he reached for another spring of mint. “I’m surprised you haven’t already. Stop it, I might want to eat some of those you know.”  
            “She’ll need the money, if, you know, I don’t come back from a contract.” He shrugged and looked everywhere but at her. There was an unspoken rule against talking about one’s own death at Alamūt, part superstition and part willful denial that an assassin’s mortality hung by a thread, that death was known to suddenly turn on even her most loyal servants.  
            Kadija’s face hardened. “You’re going to come back from every contract, Altaïr. Every. Single. One.”  
            “Yes, effendi,” he murmured apologetically, the sour taste of barberries heavy on his tongue. “But just in case some day I don’t, promise you’ll see that she gets trained, please?”  
            “Altaïr-”  
            “Not because she’s Malik’s daughter,” he quickly clarified. “She’s smart and quick, Kadija,” he continued, leaning forward to catch her eyes. “She’s only a child, but she’s _good_ , and she has the potential to be _great_. She could make Master before twenty-five.”  
            “I promise, Altaïr,” she replied, tapping her index finger against her bottom lip. “But Master before twenty-five?” She shook her head. “We don’t even know what kind of training – if any – she’s getting.”  
            “The family that took her in are Cathari,” he replied softly, pulling the letter out of his pocket and tossing it onto the table.  
            Kadija stared at the ouroboros seal silently for a long moment before picking the letter up and tracing the circled serpent. “You think they’ll teach her?”  
            “I think they’ve already started.” He tapped the edge of the folded letter. “She wrote the Creed for this girl to send me, in Arabic. She could have written anything, but she chose those words, knowing only we would understand them. If the writer is who I think she is, there is at least one Bard in that family.”  
            “A Bard?” Kadija’s eyes snapped to his, wary and intrigued. “Are you certain?”  
            “I met her once, she is, _was_ , friends with Sakineh.” He tried, and failed, to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. He wasn’t used to using the past tense yet. He wondered how much longer he would have to constantly correct himself and part of him dreaded the day that he no longer had to; it meant admitting they were really gone.  
            “Of course Sakineh would make friends with a Bard,” she whispered fondly with a watery chuckle. “That silly wand-bearer married an Assassin.” She handed back the letter and he slipped it into his pocket. The silence slowly filled with all the sentiments they didn’t have the words to express, the mutual understanding they left unsaid.  
            “Have Sirocco help with your letters to Hadassah,” Kadija finally said, tone almost jarring in its normalcy, dispassionate and even. He was grateful for her tact.  
            “I _am_ literate, you know,” he responded dryly, slowly rolling his mint spring’s pulpy remains under his fingertips. It left faint trails of green juice across the tabletop; plant blood on the polished hard wood.  
            Kadija sighed. “I _know_ that, but I also know how bad you are with children, Aquila.”  
            He briefly smiled at the childhood nickname. “I’m not that bad with her, labwa. She’s… easy to talk to, unafraid,” he explained slowly. “She has her parents’ sweetness, but there’s assassin steel in her soul. She _belongs_ here, with us.”  
            She nodded slowly, eyes hooded as she watched the steam rising from her tea. “Still, her help can’t hurt.” She met his eyes and her smile was distant, serene. “Hadassah has not yet committed to this life and it would be cruel to deny her the illusion of choice.”  
            He propped his chin on his fist and smiled back at her sadly. The eagle’s calling was as inescapable as death; he and Kadija had been raised knowing this; Hadassah had not. It was a kindness to allow her the illusion of choice, the opportunity to accept her fate with open arms before it was forced upon her. “No, I don’t suppose it can. I will defer to your greater knowledge.”  
            “A wise decision. Now drink your tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internet points if you can spot the DA reference ;)


	4. Maria: return from contract

            Mari gritted her teeth as she threw her weight against her chamber door. The wood was thick and heavy, so old it was practically petrified. _Of course I get the room with the sticky door, of course_ , she thought irritably as she staggered into her room when the door finally, silently, gave way. _At least the hinges are well oiled_.  
            She jolted backwards in confused surprise as a shadowy figure rose from her bed and bounded towards her, hidden blades unsheathing at her sudden tension.  
            “Mari!” a familiar voice greeted her exuberantly, causing her to hesitate just long enough for the speaker to pull her into a crushing hug.  
            “Ezio?” she squawked as the air was forcibly expelled from her lungs. “What are you doing here?”  
            “I came to see you, un’asina,” he laughed, purposefully mussing her hair.  
            “Why?” she asked, slithering out of his embrace and smoothing her hair, her blades once again safely sheathed against her forearms.  
            “I missed my baby sister,” he replied with a lopsided smile and a negligent shrug, drawing on his easy charm like a well-worn cloak.  
            Mari’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Uncle Mario gave permission for you to come all the way here for a visit on some vague inclination?”  
            “Always the tone of suspicion! I’m starting to think you’re not happy to see me, or something,” Ezio said with a laugh as he flopped back onto her bed.  
            She rolled her eyes with a sigh and settled next to him. “Of course I’m happy to see you – don’t be stupid – I’m just tired is all.”  
            “So I’ve heard. The gossips tell me you’ve been out on your first solo contract.” He heaved a theatrical sigh and made a show of brushing away non-existent tears. “My baby sister is so grown up now.”  
            She _probably_ took far too much satisfaction from the sound he made as she jabbed him in the side with her elbow. _Probably_.  
            “What’s with the stormy face, Mari?” he asked, absently rubbing his side. “I thought you’d be over the moon after your first contract.”  
            “I was, up until I had to report to Al Mualim,” she sighed, rubbing her hands together with a frown. “He’s frightfully perceptive, for a blind, old, half-dead codger. Must have been positively terrifying in his prime.”  
            “Did the contract not go according to form?” Ezio asked carefully.  
            “He’s dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” she snapped, flashing her brother a withering look before returning her attention to her hands. “It wasn’t how I expected, is all.”  
            Ezio frowned. “Was your training inadequate? I’m sure I can stay a while, help you, if you’d like?”  
            “Training has been fine,” she said tiredly. “More than fine, really. I could have removed the target half asleep. It’s just…golems aren’t quite the same thing as actual people, you know?”  
            “You let him talk to you,” Ezio said flatly. “Did he try to buy you off, make threats, appeal to your better nature?”  
            “Something like that.”  
            Ezio slung an arm around her shoulders in a quick hard hug.  
            “Don’t give them a chance to talk to you, Mari. It just muddies things up. The worst is when they start trying to talk about their wives or kids. There was this one –”  
            Ezio abruptly broke off and stared at the ceiling, the muscles in his jaw visibly fluttering beneath a couple days’ worth of unshaven stubble as he clenched his teeth. Mari stared at him in morbid fascination, heart beating a rapid tattoo against the inner walls of her chest because Ezio never shared the disquieting details about his contracts, not with her, not ever.  
            “What about him? Tell me, E-zo, what happened,” she asked softly.  
            Ezio sighed and dropped his gaze to the tiled floor. “He was a chatty one, desperate to tell me about his wife and two little kiddies. Tried to show me pictures.” He grimaced. “I felt bad for the guy.”  
            “What happened?” Her breath felt thick in her throat; she had a horrible feeling she knew how the story ended.  
            “I did my duty.” The finality of his tone sent a chill down her spine. “We,” he hesitated. “We don’t choose who dies, we’re just the instruments, the tools. The targets, they’re already dead, they died the moment the contract was signed; they just didn’t know it.”  
            “There is a choice. I could have stayed my blade,” she insisted weakly.  
            “The contracts are unbreakable. If you had failed in your duty, another would be sent. And another, and another, until the contract was fulfilled,” Ezio reminded her gently. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”  
            “No, I don’t believe that. There’s always a choice,” Mari insisted, trying to ignore the icy doubt squeezing her heart.  
            “There’s a story I heard when I began my training –” Ezio began, the somber mood shattering as her brother detoured into _wise elder_ mode.  
            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph too, not another. I swear to god–” Mari groaned.  
            “Shut your blasphemous mouth and listen,” Ezio interrupted her. She sighed and obligingly fell silent. He watched her for a moment before continuing.  
            “There was a man in Damascus who had stopped in a coffee shop to drink and rest from his travels. Glancing up, he happened to see Death seated at another table nearby –”  
            “Is this one of Altaïr’s stories?” she interrupted. “It sounds like one of his stories. Christ almighty, can’t either of you ever just say the thing without a long monologue, are you really that fond of hearing yourselves talk?”  
            “Jesus, Mari! Just shut up and listen for a change,” Ezio snapped.  
            “Fine, fine.” She held up her hands defensively at his glower. “So the guy sees Death in a coffee shop…”  
            Ezio scowled at her and she arched a brow at the stretching silence. He sighed.  
            “In Damascus. _This cannot be my fate,_ he cries and he runs from the shop to his horse and rides as hard and as fast as he can across the desert, all the way to Samarra–”  
            “That’s quite a ride,” Mari couldn’t help commenting pithily before quickly ducking her head at her brother’s stormy look.  
            “–and when he dismounted, Death was there, waiting for him. _This cannot be_ , the man cried. _I escaped you in Damascus_.”  
            “And Death said: _I too was surprised to see you in Damascus_ ,” came Altaïr’s voice from the doorway. “ _For our appointment was always to be tonight, in Samarra_.”  
            Ezio smiled up at their cousin as Altaïr crossed the threshold into her room. He was holding a tall pitcher in one hand and a stack of glasses in the other and easily kicked the door closed behind himself as he set the pitcher and glasses on a small table.  
            “I brought sweet mint tea, to welcome you home,” he explained unnecessarily, motioning to the pitcher and glasses. “Will you pour?”  
            Mari sighed and heaved herself off the bed. What she really wanted was to be left alone to process her thoughts, but then again, she was so terribly fond of mint tea.  
            “Shall we all have a glass? Ezio?” she queried as she hefted the heavy glass pitcher. Beads of condensation were starting to form on the vessel’s sides in the warm evening air, the tea inside was icy cool and pleasantly scented of sweetened mint; it was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture.  
            “No, thank you. I am intruding,” Altaïr said waving away the glass she offered.  
            “Not at all, I’m just a little tired. I’m glad to see you cousin, truly,” Mari assured him as she again offered the glass of tea.  
            Altaïr accepted with a murmur of thanks and dutifully touched the glass to his lips as she served Ezio and herself. They drank in silence.  
            “Thank you for the tea, Altaïr,” she said, hating how awkward she sounded. She always felt like a third wheel around Altaïr and Ezio; they had so many things and acquaintances in common, she usually ended up sitting there silently while they chatted. It didn’t help that she didn’t really understand Altaïr, and often felt like she never would. Even after training with him for over two years he was still mostly an inscrutable enigma to her – he performed the actions necessary for survival, trained and killed, nothing else; he exhibited no interests outside of the Order, and an intense possessiveness of Sirocco.  
            “I have intruded on your hospitality enough for one evening,” Altaïr insisted with a shake of his head when she offered him more tea.  
            “Training grounds, tomorrow morning?” Ezio asked, reaching over to clasp arms with Altaïr, their wrists pressed together.  
            “Of course. I’m curious if you’ve managed to tighten up your attack,” Altaïr replied, lips curving with the ghost of a smile. “I will be in my chambers, if you wanted to talk later,” he added with a polite nod to Mari.  
            “Thank you for the tea, Altaïr,” she repeated, hoping he heard the sentiments she had trouble expressing in her tone.  
            “It was a pleasure.” He paused at the doorway with a veiled glance over his shoulder. “If you do come to speak with me later, check for wards first.”  
            “Wards?” Mari repeated in confusion. “What sort of wards?”  
            Altaïr cleared his throat delicately before replying. “Silencing wards,” he clarified with a crisp look of disapproval at Ezio, who was violently shaking with suppressed laughter.  
            Mari waited for the door to click shut behind Altaïr before rounding on her brother.  
            “What did he mean by check for silencing wards first?” she demanded with a frown. “I don’t see what’s so funny,” she added as her brother collapsed on her bed with a wholly undignified snort of laughter.  
            “He was trying to tell you – in an exceedingly roundabout manner – that he’s going to be hauling ashes with Sirocco later, so you don’t just walk in on them,” Ezio gasped out, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “I can’t believe how b-bad you two still are at communicating with each other. It’s like watching a dog trying to talk to a duck.”  
            “How is it in any way my fault if I miss what he’s trying to tell me when he never just says anything?” she retorted.  
            “Really, Mari?” Ezio asked skeptically, suddenly serious. “You’ve hardly tried to get to know him.”  
            “You don’t know anything about that; you haven’t been here. And he’s not exactly the easiest person to chat up; I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”  
            “Well,” Ezio hummed uncomfortably. “You could start with pronouncing his name correctly.”  
            “What?” she asked stiffly, embarrassment and doubt prickling coldly across her scalp. “What’s wrong with how I say it?”  
            “It’s pronounced _Al-tai-air_ ,” he said slowly. “Not _Al-ta-ear_.”  
            “He’s never corrected me,” she mumbled, cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment; she’d _always_ had trouble pronouncing Altaïr’s name.  
            “Yeah, well, he’s probably just relieved you’re not still calling him _Alty_ ,” Ezio snorted.  
            “That was when I was like, five,” she sputtered. “I haven’t called him that for ages!”  
            “Good,” Ezio smiled, reaching over to playfully tug her braid. “Because he really, really hated it.”  
            She returned his smile reluctantly. “I almost can’t believe no one has corrected me; I’ve been here two years.”  
            Ezio grimaced. “They wouldn’t, would they? Not here.” He stood and strode over to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains to study the glittering sky beyond. “They’re all over you if your _breathing_ is, like, _half a heartbeat_ off, or something, during training, but outside of that it’s some inexcusable breach of etiquette to correct anyone on anything,” he continued, still looking up at the stars. “It took me ages to figure out Kadija’s name wasn’t Kenya. I felt like such an ass when Sirocco finally said something.”  
            “You do know that Kenya is a country, Ezio,” she said, joining him at the window. The sky looked like a fresh bruise – dark purples, reddish blues and shades of deep, dark green – scattered liberally with hundreds upon thousands of glittering bright stars. She hadn’t even known there were so many stars until she came to Alamūt.  
            “I know that, Mari, I’m not stupid,” Ezio huffed defensively. “But it’s not like it _couldn’t_ have been her name. People name their daughters after cities – Lourdes, Geneva, London – why not countries as well?”  
            “You do have a point,” Mari conceded thoughtfully. “Are you very friendly with Sirocco?” The question didn’t come out as casually as she’d intended.  
            Ezio shot a glance at her, expression guarded. “Sure, Mari. But, you know, friendly from a polite distance; she’s Altaïr’s best girl after all.”  
            Mari scowled at her reflection in the windowpane. “Does the term _best girl_ really apply to what she is?”  
            “Would you prefer I call her his lover, is that honest enough for you?” Ezio shot back. “Leave it alone Mari.”  
            “She’s dangerous, Ezio,” she insisted, ignoring the voice in the back of her head, which sounded suspiciously like her mother, telling her to drop it. Al Mualim and the rest of the order turned a blind eye to Altaïr and Sirocco’s affair – the Maraas were an asset to the Order, the intelligence they provided invaluable to many of the Order’s operations, and allowing the relationship was a form of appeasement – she _understood_ the reason, even if she didn’t particularly like it, but Ezio’s acceptance was infuriating and baffling.  
            “Be careful throwing stones; the Maraas generally don’t kill their prey.”  
            “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded as she spun to face him, fingers curling into fists.  
            “We kill people for a living, _because we’re told to_ ,” Ezio ground out, gripping her shoulders. Even after all of her own training, she was still amazed at how strong her brother’s hands were. “I don’t think we have any right to judge Sirocco, or any of the Maraas, for what they do to _survive_.”  
            “Stop pretending their _relationship_ is about anything other than sex. She could hurt him, kill him. I don’t understand how you can just stand by and wait for that to happen. He’s our _family_ , Ezio! Doesn’t that still mean something to you? We’re supposed to look out for each other.” She twisted out of his grasp, hating how shrill her voice sounded echoing off the hard surfaces of her room, how precarious her self-control felt. And she hated how stony and disassociated Ezio was, the hard lines of his expression and his flat, shuttered eyes; it wasn’t like him.  
            “He _loves_ her Mari,” Ezio rasped, his voice thrummed low and raw. “She makes him happy, brings him comfort; she knows exactly who he is and what he does and she accepts him, all of him, regardless. That’s a rare thing for people like us to find, and I’m not going to do anything to take that away from him. Not now, not ever. And neither should you.”  
            Mari froze, a chill wholly alien to the ubiquitous evening heat creeping across her skin, suddenly really seeing her brother’s expressions and body language, hearing the raw undercurrents deep in his voice, things that had been there all evening that she had been too tired and distracted to really notice before now.  
            “Ezio,” she said softly, gently. “What’s the real reason Uncle Mario sent you here? What happened in Italy?”  
            His mouth twisted as he looked away from her and his breathing turned shallow, jagged and painful.  
            “Has something happened to our mother?” she forced herself to ask, bracing herself for his answer, proud of how even and calm she managed to keep her tone.  
            “No. No, mother is fine, everyone is fine,” he replied quickly, voice stretched thin and tight. He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling with wide unseeing eyes. “I – I lost Cristina,” he choked out.  
            “I’m so sorry, E-zo,” she whispered. “How did she die?”  
            She flinched as he crumpled to the floor with a strangled keening cry.  
            “She’s not dead,” he gulped out between sobs. “She said she doesn’t _love_ me, she said she never did. She called me a murderer, a _monster_. She said we had no future, that I have _nothing_ to offer her. And then she left and nothing has ever hurt, so much, in my entire life.”  
            “Ezio,” she murmured, sinking down to the floor beside him, hugging him tightly. She felt frightened and powerless, overwhelmed by her brother’s palpable grief, and she desperately wanted to fix things, to make him better. “She’s not worth it. I’ll kill her for this. I swear to you, my blade will sever her life.”  
            Ezio flinched. “No. No, I can’t stand the thought of her dying,” he said shaking his head vehemently. “She’ll change her mind, she’ll come back. Oh god, I love her so much, she has to come back. Promise me, Mari. Promise me.”  
            “I promise,” she said quickly, her mind whirling. Altaïr had to have known when he brought the tea, he had watched them both so closely, so carefully; it had to have been why he told her where to find him, given implicit permission for her to interrupt when he would be with his lover. She thoughtfully sawed her teeth across her bottom lip as she rubbed her brother’s back in soothing circles, the sound of his heartbroken sobs as painful as needles under her nailbeds. She needed to speak with Altaïr.  
            It felt like hours until his tears subsided. Her legs were starting to cramp from sitting in the same awkward position for so long, but Ezio had a death grip on her sleeve like a lifeline and she didn’t dare move away.  
            “Do you want to lie down, bello?” she asked hopefully. She almost cried with relief when he finally jerked his head in a nod and lurched towards the bed. She stood and staggered to her dresser, feet tingling with pins and needles and ankles rubbery, rummaging through the drawers until she found a handkerchief.  
            “Would you like some more tea, or maybe a glass of water?” she offered, perching on the edge of the bed and gingerly wiping at his tear streaked face.  
            “Stop fussing,” he groused, batting away her hands and taking the handkerchief. He blew his nose and curled up on his side, shoulders hunched and defeated. “I’m sorry Mari. I didn’t mean to ruin your first night back.”  
            “You haven’t ruined anything E-zo,” she assured him. “I’m happy to see you regardless.” She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment before continuing. “I have to step out for a moment, you know, girl things. You okay staying here?”  
            “Yeah, I’m okay. Go do your lady things,” he mumbled listlessly.  
            “I’ll be right back,” she promised, edging towards the door. She turned to leave when he didn’t answer; it took two tries to get the door open.  
            “Blasted fucking door,” she muttered under her breath as she strode down the hallway. She hadn’t gone far before she collided with Iskender. The Apprentice stammered apologies and ineffectually flailed as she tried to detangle herself from his voluminous robes. She didn’t know him very well, but her overriding impression was that the young man was better suited to be a dapīr than a fidā'ī. He was still apologizing when an idea occurred to her.  
            “Iskender. _Iskender_ ,” she interrupted him. “Have you met my brother Ezio? He’s a master based in Roma.” She smiled brightly and toyed with a lock of hair that had been pulled loose from her braid in their tussle. “He’s in my room. Why don’t you go and introduce yourself? I’m sure he’d enjoy speaking with you.”  
            “R-really?” Iskender asked, obviously flattered but still uncertain.  
            “Of course,” she beamed encouragingly and shooed him towards her door. “Just pop in and say hello.”  
            She leisurely continued down the hallway while Iskender knocked on her door, waiting until she heard the murmur of voices as Ezio opened the door before sprinting towards the stairway.  
            As a Master, Altaïr was entitled to more spacious accommodations on a lower floor, closer to Alamūt’s opulent gardens. Her room was still many floors up from his, even though she ranked as a Disciple; she looked forward to moving down a couple floors, at least. She abandoned stealth in favor of speed, her heels loud against the stone steps as she dashed down the stairs and along hallways, finally skidding to a stop before his door. She could feel the wards, their overlapping layers and evanescent edges, hesitating only a moment before pounding her fist against his door.  
            “Altaïr,” she hissed against the smooth wood. “Altaïr!” She waited a scant moment before pounding on the door again. “Al–” She stumbled forward when the door suddenly opened, quickly bracing her hands against the doorframe to keep from colliding with her quarry.  
            “What is it Maria?” Altaïr demanded, one hand holding the door and the other braced against the doorframe, shielding the room behind him from her view with his body. He looked mildly annoyed as he arched a suspiciously well-groomed brow at her expectantly.  
            She gaped at him, gaze sliding from his messy hair and saliva-slick lips to the darkening love bite just below his clavicle. He wasn’t wearing anything but zir-šalvar, hastily put on and hanging low on his hips; she didn’t look lower.  
            “I, I’ve interrupted you,” she bleated weakly.  
            “Yes,” he agreed impatiently. “But I assume you’ve done so for a reason?”  
            She swallowed her embarrassment and went on the offensive. “You knew about Cristina.”  
            “Yes.”  
            Her eyes narrowed. “What has he told you?”  
            Altaïr sighed and took a step back, opening the door wider and motioning her inside. “Not much. He hasn’t really been well enough until earlier today, and he didn’t want to talk about it.”  
            “How do you know then?” she pressed as she slipped through the open door and into his room. She stopped short, cheeks flaming, at the sight of Sirocco perched on the windowsill, completely naked, her long hair spilling luxuriantly down her back. Sirocco slowly turned and surveyed her coldly, idly trailing the fingertips of one hand along her collarbones to the shapely curve of her shoulder, eyes luminescent in the dim light. Mari squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed in mortification; she could hardly fault the succubus’ tightly reigned hostility given the circumstances. The door closed with a soft click behind her.  
            “I received a letter from Mario Auditore,” Altaïr informed her, striding across the room towards a writing table against the far wall, it’s otherwise austere surface littered with a few carefully folded letters.  
            “ _Uncle_ Mario wrote to you?” she asked, reeling slightly with hurt and disbelief; there had been no letter from her uncle waiting for _her_.  
            “Yes. The letter was delivered shortly before Ezio was,” he replied holding out the letter to her.  
            “I don’t understand,” she mumbled, recoiling from the offered letter and crossing her arms defensively across her chest.  
            Altaïr exchanged a pointed look with Sirocco before he said something to her, in what Mari assumed was Farsi, and jerked his chin towards the door. Sirocco slid from the windowsill, lips curved in a pout, and sauntered towards the door, pausing to retrieve Altaïr’s discarded kurta from the floor and pulling it on over her head. It was tight across her breasts and hips, the hem barely skimming mid-thigh. Sirocco paused at the door with a languid backwards glance and said something to Altaïr in the same language he’d spoken to her, low voiced and seductive, before slipping out of the room, the door closing soundlessly behind her. Altaïr shivered and looked after her longingly.  
            “Altaïr,” Mari hissed, throat tight with anxiety and frustration, drawing his attention back to their conversation. “I don’t understand,” she repeated. “Why did Uncle Mario write to you and not me?”  
            “I don’t know,” he admitted, folding his arms over his chest in an unexpectedly self-conscious gesture. “Perhaps he knew you had taken a contract?”  
            “Perhaps.” She sawed her teeth across her bottom lip. “Why did he send Ezio here?”  
            “Your mother was afraid he might do himself harm if he stayed in Italy, where there are so many reminders of Cristina,” Altaïr replied slowly, sliding his eyes along the floor and shifting his weight uncomfortably.  
            “That’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous,” she snapped. “Ezio would _never_ intentionally harm himself.”  
            Altaïr’s eyes snapped to hers with a cold, hard look. “He drank enough to kill an ox and then tried to drown himself in the Tiber –”  
            “No!” Mari gasped, shaking her head vehemently. “No, it must have been an accident. Ezio would never, suicide is a mortal sin.”  
            “And killing is not?” Altaïr replied sardonically, spearing her with a speaking look before striding over to his dresser. “Cesare pulled him out; got knifed in the shoulder for his trouble. You should thank him for your brother’s life.” He turned his back to her as he shrugged a fresh shirt over his shoulders; she averted her eyes, trying not to notice the fresh scratches across his back and something that looked suspiciously like an actual bite mark near his hip.  
            “Cesare…Maraas?” she asked suspiciously, intently studying the intertwining vines on the Persian rug beneath her feet. “The incubus?”  
            “That’s the one,” Altaïr confirmed, drawing on a pair of loose, baggy trousers.  
            Maria closed her eyes with a weary sigh, eyes burning with exhaustion and unshed tears. _Of course it would have to be Cesare Maraas_.  
            “He doesn’t want Cristina dead,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes more tightly shut and trying not to cry.  
            “I know.”  
            “But I, I want vengeance,” she continued shakily. “Vengeance for what she did to him, for how she hurt him.”  
            “I want that as well, Maria,” he said softly.  
            She cracked open her eyes to look at him, her tears leaving cold wet trails down her cheeks. “What are we supposed to do, maestro?”  
            Altaïr exhaled slowly and dragged one hand along the underside of his cleanly shaven jaw, staring off at some distant point. She swallowed shakily and waited. Finally he slid his eyes back to hers, seeming to have reached a decision.  
            “I have already arranged for a contract,” he told her slowly, calmly. “With the Maraas.”  
            “What sort of contract?” she asked cautiously. “We can’t kill her, like she deserves.”  
            “Some things are worse than death,” he replied, expression hard and eyes veiled.  
            “What sort of contract, Altaïr?” she repeated. She could feel her pulse pounding through her veins and her stomach freefalling.  
            “They will deprive Cristina of her new lover. Turn him from her so as to inflict the same wounds Ezio has suffered at her hands, crush her heart and steal all hope of happiness. And in her dark hours, when she longs for nothing more than death, we will deny her that relief.” His lips curved in a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  
            “Who is the new lover?” she asked. For some reason, using other people to punish Cristina didn’t feel quite right to her, sinking a blade into her heart somehow felt more honest. She also didn’t like the idea of involving the Maraas.  
            “Some jackbooted fascist,” Altaïr replied with a dismissive shrug. “Your uncle suggested that he would be a good target for intelligence, so our revenge also serves the Order.”  
            “What are the terms of the contract?” She watched Altaïr closely as she waited for an answer that he seemed suspiciously reluctant to give.  
            “Nothing for you to concern yourself over, cousin,” he finally said, turning from her to slip his feet into a pair of white časbak.  
            “Altaïr,” she said, taking care to reproduce Ezio’s pronunciation of his name. “You’re family, both as an assassin and by blood, and we love you. I can’t let you sell yourself to the Maraas on my brother’s behalf, it is my debt as well.”  
            He noticed the gesture and his expression was a shade softer than she had expected when he replied.  
            “I have not _sold myself_ _to the Maraas_ , Maria; there is no debt.”  
            She hesitated. “But there is a contract? What consideration was given to form it?”  
            “The consideration is between Sirocco and her kin; she created the contract,” he told her slowly as he retrieved his hidden blades from next to his bed.  
            “Why?” The question left her mouth so quickly she surprised even herself.  
            He shot a hard look at her before returning his attention to fastening the blade holsters to his forearms.  
            “Why, Altaïr,” she repeated, breaking the brittle, spiraling silence.  
            “It is not your place to ask me that, apprentice,” he finally said with a blank expression unsettlingly reminiscent of Al Mualim.  
            Her cheeks burned hotly at his rebuke – she was _not_ an apprentice – as icy apprehension slithered down her spine. _What are you so unwilling to tell me_ , she wondered as she watched him fasten the last buckle of his holsters.  
            “My question was to my kinsman, not the assassin,” she clarified, tone carefully neutral.  
            “There is no separation,” he snapped. “I am one and the same and it is an improper question no matter how you ask.”  
            _It’s because he’s letting her feed on him._ Her stomach rolled with revulsion and horror at the thought. She took a deep breath as her mouth watered ominously and feverishly prayed to the virgin for the strength to not throw up.  
            “You’ve gone pale,” he observed with clinical detachment.  
            She managed a jerky nod and concentrated on breathing through her nose. With a wholly inappropriate bout of masochism, her brain chose that particular moment to conjure up her first memory of Cesare Maraas.  
            She had been thirteen. Usually she enjoyed spending afternoons at their mother’s bordello; she liked the women and men who worked there. They helped her with her homework and needlework when her mother didn’t have the time, they taught her how to play the piano and the latest dance steps, how to pick locks and pockets and win at cards. It was shortly after Ezio had left, after a far too brief visit, and she had been roped into helping change sheets. She had entered what was supposed to be an unoccupied room and found one of her mother’s girls – Therese – being fed upon by the incubus. Cesare. His lower jaw was cleanly split down the middle of his chin, both halves spread wide open to accommodate the mass of jellyfish-like feeding barbs writhing over Therese. Suddenly he had turned to look at her, sucking the wet, dark red tentacles into his mouth, in exactly the same manner she’d watched her brother slurp down mountainous forkfuls of spaghetti, and flashed her the most angelically beautiful smile as his jaw sealed shut. She had screamed, dropped the sheets and ran, the sound of Therese sobbing and begging him not to stop trailing after her. The nightmares had started that very night, and they intensified after Therese died the following week.  
            “I can’t. I’m so afraid for you,” she choked out before pressing her fingers to her lips. She’d always hated crying in front of him; Altaïr shied away from emotional outbursts and she knew her tears were undoing months of work trying to be seen as an equal.  
            “For me?” Altaïr repeated in surprise.  
            “Her feeding, it will hurt you, kill you,” she burst out, words tumbling from her lips as tears slid down her face. “I don’t want you to die.” Her admission surprised them both, even though the sentiment had always been there. She was tired of her family dying all around her.  
            “Everything dies,” he replied uncomfortably.  
            “Not like that!”  
            “There is nothing for you to concern yourself over, Maria,” he said softly.  
            “You can’t say that! You don–”  
            “There is nothing for you to concern yourself over,” he interrupted and silenced her with a staying gesture. “Because Sirocco does not feed on me.”  
            She stared at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as the silence stretched.  
            “Our _relations_ …do not, have never, included…that,” he explained awkwardly, refusing to meet her eyes. He sighed and reached for the small pitcher of water on his bedside table. “The contract was arranged as a token of her love,” he finally said, filling a glass.  
            Wordlessly she accepted the glass of water he held out to her and drank slowly. She was, quite frankly, astonished that he had told her anything about his relationship with Sirocco. In her experience Altaïr was usually stoic – if not outright taciturn – calculating, focused, driven; she couldn’t recall ever hearing him laugh. He disapproved of bawdy humor, he never flirted – with anyone, and while she wouldn’t go so far as to call him a prude – out loud – she had never imagined that the succubus had any interest in him as an actual lover. _Ezio was right; I hardly know him at all_.  
            He slid a cautious glance at her. “I think it’s also to win you over, a little. She knows you dislike her.”  
            She choked on her water and blushed guiltily. “I don’t dislike her as a _person_. I dislike the idea of her hurting you,” she hastily clarified with a cough. “Besides,” she continued, “even if I _did_ dislike her – which I don’t – it might actually be a good sign. I mean, I liked Cristina just fine and look how that turned out.”  
            “Indeed.” Altaïr had drifted back to his dresser and was carefully arranging the handful of items scattered across its surface. “How was Ezio, when you left him?”  
            “Cried-out?” She hitched her shoulders in an uneasy shrug. “For now at least. I sent Iskender in to talk with him when I came here.”  
            “Iskender?” he asked with a fleeting frown. “I’ll walk you back.”  
            Mari cocked her head slightly, eyes narrowing in suspicion as she watched Altaïr stroll towards the door; his manner a bit _too_ casual. “You aren’t going to fetch Sirocco?”  
            “I asked her to look in on Ezio, since our conversation didn’t seem like it was going to be a short one,” came his cool reply from the hall.  
            Mari gritted her teeth and stomped after him. She would have protested, had she known; sometimes she got so tired of the men in her life neatly arranging things behind her back.  
            “You sent her to my room?” she bit out.  
            “I asked her to watch over Ezio while you and I talked,” he corrected her, tone light and conversational.  
            “In my room.”  
            “I thought you just said that you don’t dislike her?” Altaïr replied, footsteps soundless as a ghost.  
            Mari ran her tongue along the rim of her bottom teeth and resisted the urge to swear. “I like plenty of people just fine, but that doesn’t automatically mean I invite them into my personal space,” she said, tone carefully casual.  
            “I understand. My apologies, I was concerned for Ezio and didn’t stop to check with you first.”  
            It wasn’t really an apology; he hadn’t bothered to sound the least bit sorry. It was, however, completely unexpected. She wondered if Ezio had said something to him about making more of an effort with her as well. _He’s such a meddlesome mother-hen_ , she thought, although she did so fondly. Ezio had always hated domestic disharmony, playing mediator during the frequent and inevitable family disputes that arose when they were growing up; hopefully their mother and uncle had declared an armistice while Ezio was away or he’d return to nothing but smoking rubble and finger-pointing. She glanced over at Altaïr, noticing with a twinge of annoyance that his breathing was completely unaffected by the brisk pace he set – even going up stairs – whereas she had to regulate her breathing and practically trot to keep up. Still, she was pleased with the way her body adapted to breathing in the slow, rhythmic, way that at least allowed her to save face and keep up without wheezing or grabbing her sides in pain. _Behold the day to day benefits of all that training: not looking like a total initiate in front of Altaïr_ , she thought wryly.  
            “You’re in a hurry. Not worried about anything, are you,” she asked between breaths, forcing herself to sound conversational and not at all winded.  
            “What would I be concerned about?” he countered, easily rounding to the next flight of stairs.  
            “I don’t know. Ezio? Sirocco? Something to do with Iskender?” she hazarded, jogging up the stairs after him.  
            “My concern is limited to getting Sirocco back into my bed,” he replied dryly. “As quickly as reasonably possible.”  
            “Oh. Right,” she muttered, hating how hot she blushed as her toe caught the edge of a step and she tripped up the stairs. Altaïr caught her before she fell, gripping her upper arm with bruising strength at he hauled her up the last of the stairs with him.  
            “We should see about getting you a room on a lower floor,” he commented, releasing her arm as they stepped into the hallway.  
            She tucked an errant coil of hair behind her ear and tried not to look too pleased at the hint of promotion as she fell into step beside him. “That would be much appreciated.”  
            “All in time,” he replied with an enigmatic half-smile and a quick, sideways glance at her.  
            She huffed with silent laughter and toyed with the end of her now ragged braid. She wasn’t used to Altaïr being so _human_ , not that she was complaining, it just felt a little strange to be able to talk to him like a regular person, almost like an equal. He slowed as they approached her quarters. She shot him a quick, questioning look but followed his lead. He held a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture and tilted his head towards her room.  
            Her door had been left slightly ajar, the faint murmur of voices within just barely audible. Following his lead, she stilled and listened more closely. Her brother was probably recounting one of his better contracts; she could practically hear the swagger in his voice, even if the words themselves were indistinct. The other two voices were sporadically audible – Sirocco’s soothing with subdued admiration and Iskender’s excited worshipful chatter. Ezio still sounded a bit off, voice slightly gravely and less exuberant than usual, but it seemed like their combined efforts had done quite a bit to lift his spirits. She smiled and glanced over at Altaïr.  
            He was leaning against the wall, head cocked towards her door, lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. It suddenly struck her that she and Ezio accepting Sirocco mattered to him. It was such a basic, universal desire – wanting loved ones to like and accept one’s significant other – she was embarrassed it hadn’t occurred to her before, although, in all fairness, she also hadn’t considered the possibility that Sirocco actually returned Altaïr’s affection before that evening either.  
            “Let’s go in,” she whispered, plucking at his sleeve. He tipped his chin in a shallow nod and motioned her to precede him with a languid roll of his wrist.  
            Ezio’s attention snapped to her the moment she came through the door.  
            “I thought you said you had to do lady stuff?” he asked, tone disingenuously light and playful.  
            “I did,” she protested as Altaïr slid past her to where Sirocco was lounged.  
            “When did you become such an _authority_ on lady things that my little sister goes running straight to you, Altaïr?” There was an unmistakably angry undercurrent to Ezio’s playful tone.  
            Mari chewed the inside of her cheek. Of course Ezio would be extra sensitive to any indication that they might be talking behind his back, and she _had_ run straight to Altaïr, but only because she was so worried about him. Normally he’d be delighted that she and Altaïr were managing to get along; it was strange for him to be annoyed.  
            “E-zo,” she started, frantically casting about for the right thing to say.  
            “Maria came to see me, actually,” Sirocco seamlessly cut in with an apologetic smile. “I am rather an unimpeachable authority on all _lady stuff_ , you know. She wanted to discuss _contraception_.”  
            Mari felt the blood drain from her face. _That’s not helpful. Good god, what is she playing at?_ However, Sirocco had chosen well – Ezio looked slightly horrified at the thought and let the matter drop without further comment.  
            “But I asked Maria about assassin business so Siro left to look in on you,” Altaïr continued smoothly, recovering quickly, as he possessively skimmed the backs of his fingers across Sirocco’s shoulders. As always, she was impressed by how effortlessly he adapted to shifting situations; it was a formidable edge. Ezio’s searching gaze slid from Altaïr to her and the corners of his mouth turned up with the hint of a smile, posture relaxing.  
            “Yes, we talked about the contract and my possible elevation in rank,” she quickly confirmed. “Please, please don’t tell Mother,” she hurriedly added with a pleading look to her brother.  
            “I wouldn’t spoil your good news, Mari, especially since it hasn’t actually happened yet,” Ezio promised with a wink and a smile.  
            “You know you’d be the first person I’d tell, bello,” she replied, returning her brother’s grin; Ezio had always had an infectious smile, he’d could walk into a funeral with one of his bright, sunny smiles and everyone around him would start smiling.  
            “Before even Altaïr?” Ezio asked.  
            “Maria hardly tells me anything,” Altaïr murmured, tracing his fingers along Sirocco’s clavicles as she leaned back against him.  
            “That’s because he knows everything before I do,” Mari explained with a roll of her eyes. “ _Especially_ the things that are none of his business.”  
            Altaïr slid a cool look in her direction and Ezio coughed with laughter.  
            “Play nice now, Mari,” he scolded.  
            “It is getting late,” Sirocco commented, intertwining her fingers with Altaïr’s before pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of his wrist. “And I long for your bed.”  
            Ezio raised his brows at Mari; she furrowed hers questioningly in response. He sighed and pointedly slid his eyes from Iskender, who had been gaping at Sirocco with slack-jawed admiration, to Altaïr, who was watching Iskender like a predator about to spring, his face an expressionless stone death mask. _Oh. Not good._ She was fairly used to Altaïr’s usual level of jealous possessiveness – to be fair, Sirocco was only wearing one of his shirts, and it didn’t leave much to the imagination – but this was excessive, even for him.  
            “It _is_ getting late,” she hurriedly agreed striding towards the door. “Good night, Iskender,” she added loudly, holding the door open with an expectant look.  
            “R-right,” Iskender replied distractedly. He swayed dangerously as he turned from Sirocco to Ezio.  
            “It was a pleasure to meet you, effendi. I hope we may one day train together,” Iskender said carefully, in his most flowery Arabic. Mari rolled her eyes and huffed in annoyance; it seems her brother already had made quite an impression.  
            “I look forward to that day. Safety and peace,” Ezio replied magnanimously, barely managing to suppress a smile at Mari’s impatience.  
            “Safety and peace, effendi,” Iskender mumbled to Altaïr distractedly as his eyes slithered up the shapely lines of Sirocco’s legs.  
            “Good evening, _initiate_ ,” Altaïr tersely responded. “I suggest returning to your chambers and staying there until you’ve remembered your manners.” It would have been impossible for anyone, even Iskender, to miss the slight and his implicit threat.  
            Iskender blinked uncertainly for a moment before a dark, hot blush flooded his cheeks. He stumbled into the doorframe whilst trying to leave quickly and still ogle Sirocco. Mari sighed with relief as she shut the door, perhaps more forcefully than strictly necessary, behind him.  
            “He is just a boy, Altaïr,” Sirocco murmured reprovingly.  
            “He wasn’t looking at you like a boy would,” Altaïr snapped, sliding a possessive arm around her ribs, just below her breasts, as he nuzzled the side of her neck. Mari’s eyes narrowed suspiciously; Altaïr was not a demonstrative person, especially when it came to public displays of affection with Sirocco.  
            “He was looking at her _exactly_ like a boy would, Altaïr,” Ezio replied drolly before turning to Sirocco. “Thank you for coming by to see me, I enjoyed our visit,” he murmured, brushing a familial kiss against her cheek. “Safety and peace.”  
            “And I as well,” Sirocco replied, giving his bicep an affectionate squeeze. “This pain will pass, Ezio. In time, these wounds will heal and you will be stronger because of them. I promise.”  
            Ezio managed a jerky nod and exchanged a parting cheek-kiss with Altaïr. “Training, tomorrow morning?” he rasped.  
            “Of course,” Altaïr replied with a smile. He pinned Mari with a speaking look as he leaned over to brush his lips against her cheek.  
            _Yes, yes. I’ll watch over him tonight_ , she thought with irritation as she interpreted the look Altaïr had given her.  
            Mari distractedly returned the gesture and managed a brittle smile at Sirocco, who thankfully did not move to kiss her goodnight. The succubus’ lips parted in an angelically beautiful smile, eerily reminiscent of Cesare, before she pulled Altaïr to her and vanished them both soundlessly.  
            Mari exhaled slowly. “Where are you staying?” she asked, turning to her brother.  
            Ezio rocked back on his heels innocently. “I had been staying here – in your room – while you were out on contract,” he admitted sheepishly. “I don’t like the guest quarters… it feels weird to be so far away from other assassins.”  
            She sighed. “You can stay here tonight –” Ezio flashed her a toothy grin. “–but you’ll have to sleep on the floor; I’m not giving up my bed on my first night back and it’s most definitely not wide enough for both of us.”  
            “At least you’ve got a nice rug and a bunch of extra cushions all over the place,” he replied, digging the toes of one foot into the rug. “I wouldn’t say no to an extra blanket or two, though.”  
            “Yeah, okay,” she distractedly replied as she hunted for the slip she usually slept in. The hem had been badly torn jumping a fence and really it was too shabby to be worn out in public, even under her clothes, but it was comfortable and fit well and, frankly, with the way fabric was being rationed – pretty much everywhere – she didn’t feel wealthy enough to just throw out an otherwise serviceable piece of clothing. “Have you seen my slip, E-zo? I left it on the bed, you must have moved it.”  
            “Don’t tell me you actually _wear_ that scraggly thing?” he exclaimed with a laugh. “Really, Mari, if you’re that hard up I can give you some money, un’asina.”  
            “I do, as a matter of fact, and I don’t need your money,” she responded with frosty indignation. “Where have you put it?”  
            He made a show of rolling his eyes at her. “On the table, over there. Lucky I didn’t just throw it away.”  
            “Lucky for you,” she retorted as she stalked over to the corner table. She found it wadded up and precariously hanging over the table’s edge. “It’s all dusty and creased,” she groused as she tried to shake out the dust and wrinkles.  
            “Oh, it’s positively _ruined_ , I’m sure.”  
            She glared at him and hugged the slip to her chest. “Go wait in the hall while I change. _Now_ ,” she added when he rolled his eyes at her, again, and didn’t get up. “I’m serious, Ezio! I’m not getting undressed with you in the room.”  
            “I’m not looking, _jesus_. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, anyways.”  
            Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m your sister, not a whore in Mother’s bordello.”  
            “Yeah, okay. Fine,” he sighed as he stood and sauntered to the door. “Be quick about it alright? It makes me look like a creep just hanging around outside your door; I’m counting to twenty-five and then coming back in.”  
            “Better make it thirty,” she retorted and waited until the door clicked shut behind him and started counting. She had skinned off her clothes and shimmied into her slip by the time she reached twenty, and finished the necessary strap adjustments and dumped her discarded clothes into the hamper by twenty-five. She continued counting, just out of curiosity, as she fished extra blankets out from where she stored them under the bed. At thirty-seven the door lurched open and Ezio slid into the room, shielding his eyes.  
            “Are you decent?”  
            “If I said no would you keep staggering around with your eyes covered?” she asked, shoving a stack of bedding at him.  
            “Ha,” he retorted, reflexively taking the blankets. His expression darkened to a scowl as he surveyed her slip. “I’m buying you a new nightie.”  
            “That’s not necessary. My sleepwear is perfectly adequate, thanks,” she replied stiffly.  
            “It’s indecent; I have an extra shirt in my knapsack you can wear.”  
            There’s nothing wrong with this slip. You’re being ridiculous and it’s late and I’m tired.”  
            “I can see through it.”  
            “Then stop staring so hard at my tits. _Jesus_ , Ezio.”  
            “I need to talk to Altaïr. I can’t believe he allowed this to happen; he’s supposed to be looking out for you,” he blustered, unceremoniously dumping the bedding on the rug.  
            “And what _exactly_ has he _allowed_ to happen,” she demanded, fingers curling into fists.  
            “That!” He waived an accusatory finger in the general direction of her clothing. “And contraception! And – oh-sweet-mother-of-god,” he gasped with a dawning look of horror. “Please tell me it’s not Iskender.”  
            “What’s not Iskender?” she asked cautiously.  
            “The contraception –”  
            “What? Eww, no! Oh, _god no_! Are you serious?” she sputtered, cheeks flaming.  
            “Oh good,” he sighed in short-lived relief. “It’s not someone worse, is it?”  
            “Oh yes, you’ve uncovered my hot and steamy love affair with Al Mualim,” she retorted.  
            He looked at her incredulously, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he was trying not to laugh.  
            “There’s no lover so there’s no need to get all alpha-male-protective or anything. Besides, you don’t own me; I’m not some _possession_ to be horded. Honestly, I don’t know how or why Sirocco puts up with it,” she huffed.  
            “Whoa there, ease off a bit Mari,” Ezio said, raising his hands mock-defensively. “Has it occurred to you that maybe she’s into it, that she _likes_ when he gets jealous?”  
            “Way to make their relationship _even creepier_ ,” she replied with a shudder.  
            He shrugged. “One day you’ll fall in love. Maybe you’ll see things differently then.”  
            “Maybe…”  
            “So if there’s no lover,” he hesitated expectantly; she raised an inpatient eyebrow and remained silent. He rolled his eyes and continued, “why were you asking Sirocco about contraception?”  
            “I wanted to know if there’s a way to manipulate my cycle; I don’t like feeling at all under the weather when I’m on a contract,” she told him with a sigh. It wasn’t _exactly_ untrue, she had asked Kadija if there was a way to control when she got her period; the answer had been a disappointing _not really_.  
            “Manipulate your cycle,” he repeated disbelievingly.  
            “Yeah,” her lips curved into a slight smile as she recognized an opportunity to make her brother squirm. “You know, my _menstrual_ cycle.”  
            He flinched. “That’s unnatural.”  
            “Not at all,” she chirped, widening her eyes innocently. “I’m sure every girl would love to control when she gets her period.”  
            “We really don’t need to have this conversation Mari.”  
            “I would have spared you the details, but you were being so pushy to know my _personal_ business, concerning my _vagina_ ,” she cooed, unbraiding her hair and twisting a tightly coiled curl around her finger.  
            “Ok, we’re done,” he said, shrugging off his robes. “I’d like to go to sleep now.”  
            “Are you sure you don’t want to hear more about my periods,” she asked sweetly.  
            “No, I’m good. Thanks,” he replied shortly as he vigorously went about arranging his bedding.  
            “But I haven’t even told you about the clots,” she pouted.  
            “Goodnight Maria,” he interrupted loudly before diving beneath the covers and clamping a pillow over his head.  
            “Goodnight Ezio,” she chortled, turning out the lamp. “Pleasant dreams.”  
            The shadowy blanket pile harrumphed in response.  
            Still smiling, Mari crawled into bed and settled the covers over herself. She laid awake long after her brother’s breathing had settled into the slow deep rhythm of sleep, watching over him as he slept. She’d missed him terribly since she’d come to train at Alamūt. It felt like she’d failed him somehow, that this heartbreak could have been prevented if she had only been there to look out for him. She’d felt lost without his help, without him around to talk to and tease, and knew he felt the same. She tossed and turned as the moon sank towards the distant horizon before finally succumbing to sleep herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the historical order, the Assassin Order in this fic isn't just assassins - it's a lot bigger and more self contained than that.
> 
> Fidā'ī – actual “assassins”  
> Dā‘ī – the “rank and file” of the Order: the tradesmen, craftpersons, and support staff   
> Dapīr – scholars   
> Vicīr – lawyers


	5. Altaïr: in the garden

            Altaïr gingerly shook his head as his stomach rolled unpleasantly, disoriented and nauseous. Usually he hardly felt the effects when Sirocco vanished them.  
            “We’re not in my room,” he observed, glancing around at Alamūt’s magnificent gardens before leveling a curious look at his lover. “I thought you said that you longed for my bed?”  
            Sirocco hummed and slid a careful fingertip along the edge of his jaw. “I thought we should enjoy the Gardens before the frost comes and withers them away.”  
            “Siro-” he started disapprovingly.  
            She cut him off with a trill of laughter and playfully skipped away from him, her long hair rippling down her back and skin glowing in the moonlight. His eyes slid over her bare creamy legs as she gamboled down one of the many paths towards the heart of the Garden.  
            “Come catch me, Altaïr,” she called over her shoulder, soft and teasing, before she ran from him in earnest, quickly vanishing from sight into the shadowy gardens.  
            He chased her – of course he chased her – following the faint sounds of her footsteps and the branches softly swaying in her wake. Her familiar scent was obscured by the heady perfume of the garden itself – honeysuckle and jasmine, moonflowers, sage and cedar, the pungent scents of damp earth, wet bark, and underlying it all was the crisp, sweet scent of fresh water – and he resisted the urge to use his eagle vision, to hunt her like a predator. He chased her through the shifting kaleidoscope of frosty moonlight and warm shadows, finally pouncing when she paused in front of a fountain and she turned so quickly in his arms, lips parted in a triumphant grin as she wrapped herself around him, he was reminded that she was a far more experienced predator than he. Her hands were cool against his overheated skin, sharp teeth grazing the edge of his jaw and she smelled like Madonna lilies and myrrh and brine and he couldn’t get enough of it, of her.  
            “Let’s go to bed,” he panted against the side of her neck, twisting handfuls of the kurta she was wearing in his hands, torn between pulling it up to touch the naked skin beneath and smoothing it down to obscure what was his from any prying eyes that chanced to happen upon them.  
            “Later,” she promised, pressing her body against his. “But now, make love to me here, in the moonlight, on the earth; here in the Garden.”  
            Her breath was hot on his skin and the fly of his trousers chafed against his painfully hard flesh and _allahu akbar_ he really, _really_ wanted to – of course he wanted to – but there was both the worry of being caught, and the deeper reason he would not admit, his own embarrassment at his need for her, which he banished to the darkest depths of his conscience as she stared into his eyes.  
            “No,” he choked out, though it just about killed him to say it. “Not here, not in Al Mualim’s Garden; it’s disrespectful and improper.”  
            “The Garden belongs to the Order,” she corrected him. “And are to be enjoyed by its members. Enjoy them with me, Altaïr.”  
            “Siro-”  
            She sighed. “Then let me enjoy you.” She slid her hands up under his shirt, skimming her nails along his torso.  
            “I am always happy to be enjoyed by you,” he murmured against her velvety lips, “ _in my bed_.”  
            “And I want to enjoy you _right here_ , like this,” she insisted before kissing him hungrily, impatiently licking at the seam of his lips until he opened his mouth to her. She coaxed his tongue into her mouth, sucking it gently, skillfully, and he understood exactly what she wanted to do when her hands drifted to the front of his trousers.  
            “May I?” she asked softly, eyes glowing like molten copper. The backs of her fingers brushed against him as she unbuttoned his fly and they both knew he wouldn’t be able to say no.  
            His breath felt thick in his throat. “Yes.”  
            And then she was kissing him harder and pulling his trousers wide open, exposing him to the cool night air, and guiding him to sit on the edge of the fountain. He gasped at the first touch of her tongue, body tense with need and fear, shame and desire.  
            “Do it the special way,” he begged in a broken whisper, embarrassed and eager. “Please Siro, do it the special way.”  
            He felt her smile as she deep-throated him, right before her bottom lip split and she threw coils around his three piece set. He loved the feeling of her wrapping around him, the way she could touch him everywhere while still stroking gentle fingertips along the inside of his thighs; he loved the tight searing heat of her coils juxtaposed with the velvety softness of her tongue, the way the silky smooth tissue of her cheeks and throat felt against him when she sucked. He bit his lip to keep from moaning, reminding himself that there were no silencing wards and that he did not want them to be caught. His back arched as one of her barbs hooked his frenulum. He loved the way she touched him, the rippling pleasure dappled with sharp sparks of pain, the uncertainty if she would allow him to orgasm and the overwhelming ecstasy he felt when she did. Although no one had told him so directly, he understood some of the things they did together were shameful, that he should not crave the taste of her sex or the feeling of her barbs, that he should not become aroused at the sight of her combing her hair or the way she said his name. There were some who thought him foolish to love her, to believe that she loved him, but in his heart he knew that they were wrong; they loved each other deeply, beyond right or wrong or reason and everything with her felt so good, so right.  
            “Yes,” he moaned, twisting his fingers into the shining masses of her hair. “Please, yes.”  
            She hummed low in her throat as she curled her tongue and brushed the silky pads of her thumbs against the sharp crests of his hip bones and the intensity of his orgasm wrenched a sob from his throat as she swallowed.  
            He groaned before he could stop himself when she sucked her tentacles back under her tongue and resealed her jaw, the freshly raised wheals she left behind stinging in the cool evening air.  
            “Who have I caught rutting like animals in my garden?”  
            Altaïr froze in the act of refastening his trousers, throat tight with panic and bitter resignation as he narrowed his eyes at his lover. _I told you so_.  
            “Speak,” Al Mualim commanded, thumping his cane on the stone path for emphasis.  
            Altaïr took a deep breath, mentally bracing himself for the inescapable unpleasantness of the coming encounter. “My apologies, efendim-”  
            “Altaïr?” Al Mualim asked in surprise, tilting his head towards the younger man.  
            He winced. “Yes, efendim.”  
            “I expect this of an initiate, or an apprentice, or perhaps even a novice,” the old man bristled, gripping the head of his cane tightly with both hands in white-knuckled rage. “But from _you_ , and as one of my Masters, no less-”  
            Altaïr bowed his head, embarrassed and ashamed and entirely grateful for the fact that his mentor was mostly blind and couldn’t see that he was still partially undressed and half-hard.  
            “Peace, Jamil,” Sirocco interrupted him, rising to her feet and stepping in front of Altaïr.  
            “Sirocco?” Al Mualim asked, cocking his head again. “Is that you?”  
            “Yes, old friend, it is I,” she murmured, soundlessly gliding over to take the old master’s arm. “Do not be so harsh on Altaïr; it was not so long ago that you yourself was trysting in these gardens.”  
            Al Mualim affectionately patted the hand she rested on his arm and Altaïr’s teeth clenched with jealousy; he couldn’t stand it when other men touched Sirocco but he was in no position to voice his protest.  
            “That feels like a lifetime ago,” Al Mualim sighed. “Almost like the life of another man; there are so few left who remember me as I was then.”  
            “I will always remember,” Sirocco promised sweetly as she flashed Altaïr a warning look to stay silent, to let her handle things.  
            “Yes,” Al Mualim murmured thoughtfully. “The memories of the Maraas are one form of immortality, I suppose. I’m almost glad I can no longer see your face, old friend. Watching myself grow old next to your timeless beauty makes me feel even lonelier.”  
            Sirocco laughed lightly as she led Al Mualim around the fountain. “Have you grown tired of my face over these years?”  
            Altaïr could taste the smoky tendrils of her magic on the air and willed his eyes to slide into eagle vision. Sirocco glowed, wreathed in the white fire of her energy, while Al Mualim appeared pale beside her, growing dim like a dying star; it made him sad. Al Mualim – Master Jamil, as Altaïr had known him as a boy – was one of the last constants in his life at Alamūt: he had claimed him after his mother and grandfather died, kept him at Alamūt when his Aunt Maria came demanding to take him back to Italy with her. She had fought for him like a lioness; it had hurt to watch her fight with Al Mualim because she had never looked so much like his mother as she did then, and when Al Mualim won and he saw the fight go out of his aunt’s eyes it was like seeing his mother dead on that slab in the Syrian morgue all over again, the Rafīk’s hand hard on the back of his neck as he told him _do not look away from death and do not cry, Altaïr, see and remember; this is your duty_. He fell into step a respectful few paces behind Al Mualim and bowed his head, lost in his own thoughts and memories as Sirocco chatted and flattered his mentor.  
            “I’m sorry, but I cannot do as you ask,” Al Mualim said sharply, drawing Altaïr’s attention back to the two figures walking in front of him.  
            “It has been 713 years, Jamil. When will your Order honor the promise it made to the Maraas those many centuries ago?” Sirocco shot back, tone uncharacteristically sharp.  
            “I have held that wolf by the ears for too many years to safely release it now,” Al Mualim replied regretfully. “I’m sorry, old friend.”  
            “What harm could you possibly fear? Your Order was founded on ideals of individual freedom, how can you not now honor those same ideals?” Sirocco wheedled sweetly, abruptly changing tact.  
            “Being ruled by those ideals nearly destroyed us,” Al Mualim responded. “We have had to temper ideology with pragmatism for survival these many centuries. The Apple is simply too powerful for us to risk it being used against us.”  
            “Those who sacrifice liberty for security deserve neither,” Sirocco quoted in rapid staccato, body ridged with annoyance. He hardly found the things she quoted surprising anymore, she left often left her books in his room, texts written in a variety of languages and he sometimes wondered exactly how many languages she could speak, if she found his own language skills lacking.  
            She sighed and dropped her head against Al Mualim’s shoulder. “My apologies, Jamil, I did not mean to rekindle this dispute between us again.”  
            Altaïr could hear the smile in Al Mualim’s voice when he answered. “No? So let it rest, my friend.” The old mentor stopped and turned to face the succubus, gathering her hands in his. “I am sorry I cannot grant your request. I promise, someday the Order will return this Piece of Eden to the Maraas, but it will not be tonight. As-salaam alaikum, sitt.” Al Mualim lifted her hands and brushed his lips against the ridges of her knuckles before turning to Altaïr. “Safety and peace be upon you my child.”  
            “Safety and peace, efendim,” Altaïr murmured, masking his lingering discomfort behind a diffident tone.  
            Al Mualim chuckled dryly at some private joke and shuffled down the path towards his quarters, his progress completely silent, save for the tapping of his cane against the stones.  
            “Siro-” he began.  
            She moved quickly, pressing her fingertips against his lips and silencing him with a firm shake of her head. Obligingly he stayed silent, picking over the curious conversation he had just overheard between his lover and mentor. After a long moment he parted lips to nibble her fingers. She glanced over her shoulder to check Al Mualim’s progress along the path before catching hold of his hand and leading him in the opposite direction. They walked for some time in silence before Sirocco collapsed onto a bench and pulled him down beside her.  
            “Sirocco,” he asked hesitantly, “is Al Mualim the one who sired me?”  
            “Hmm?” she purred turning her attention to him. “Jamil? No, my love, he is not.”  
            He rolled his bottom lip against the edge of his tongue, tentative and conflicted. “How do you know that?” he forced himself to ask, uncertain if he even wanted to know the answer.  
            “I just do.” Sirocco grasped the point of his chin between fingers, forcing his gaze to meet hers. “Why are you asking me this now, Altaïr?”  
            “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I guess because I feel alone. Malik was supposed to be safe; he and Sakineh were trying to have another child – did I tell you that? They wanted another girl; they were going to name her Maria.” His cheeks felt wet and he wondered when he had started crying as Sirocco crooned low in her throat and brushed his tears away. “I’m not good at this, Siro. Malik was supposed to be the head of the family – he was the responsible, reliable one – I’m just making a mess of things.”  
            “No, my dearest love-”  
            “Yes, I am,” he insisted with an impatient tug at the hem of the kurta she was wearing. “Ezio almost _died_ , Siro. He’s still teetering on the edge, but I don’t know what to _do_ about it. Aunt Maria tasked me with watching over him, helping him recover, but I always say the wrong thing, at the wrong time; I always make things worse and Malik isn’t here anymore to fix the things I ruin, and I’m _scared_. I’m going to fail him, Siro, I’m going to fail them all.”  
            “Altaïr.” She cradled his face in her hands as she straddled his lap. “I won’t let anything happen to Ezio and Maria. Together we will keep them safe, forever, okay?”  
            He nodded and hid his face against her chest. She carded a hand through his hair and he felt the tension melt from his shoulders, replaced with an intensifying ache in his loins. He wanted to be in bed, he wanted to wake up and be told everything was just a bad dream: Malik, Sakineh, Darim and Cyrus were alive, Hadassah was happy and safe, and Ezio was happy with Cristina, still waiting for the perfect moment to ask her to be his wife. He was ashamed of his weakness and tears and the childish way he clung to her. He tried to pull away, but she held him close and he was suddenly reminded that, while soft and fragile looking, she was much stronger than he was.  
            “Siro-”  
            “Hush, Altaïr,” she murmured, tracing the scar that split his eyebrow with the tips of her fingers. She gently tilted his head back from her chest and traced his scar again, this time with the tip of her tongue. He shivered, eyes drifting shut and he gripped her waist more tightly. He felt her kisses bush against his eyelids, soft as butterfly wings, and he relaxed in her arms.  
            “Please.” He wasn’t sure what he was begging her for.  
            “Peace, my love,” she whispered, trailing kisses down the side of his face.  
            “Please, Siro,” he whispered. She was holding him in place and it felt good to relinquish control, to simply obey and abscond responsibility.  
            “What is it you are asking for?” she murmured against his throat, one hand up his shirt, right between his shoulder blades, pressing him forward against her, while the other unfastened his trousers. “Do you ache? Do you need me to make you feel better, my love?”  
            “Yes,” he breathed. “Make me better. Please, Siro, pl-” he broke off with a gasp as she sheathed him, hot, slippery-wet coils stinging and soothing against his freshly abraded flesh. She cradled the base of his skull in her hands, thumbs stroking along his jaw, urging his mouth open to her kisses, to her warmth sliding down his throat.  
            “Like this? Does this feel better, Altaïr?” she purred between wet-hot kisses, as she rolled her hips and expertly rode him.  
            He nodded and clung to her. “I’m close, really close. Please, Siro, please may I?”  
            “Not yet, my love.” Her smile was all serrated sharp edges in the moonlight. “Wait for it, Altaïr.” Her coils contracted around him, almost painfully tight, and he bit back a moan. “Hush, my love,” she soothed, pulling the kurta off over her head. “Be a good boy and bring our love down.”


	6. Maria: intel from Cesare

            _I should have worn a hat_ , Mari thought ruefully, holding up a hand to shade her eyes as she watched Ezio and Altaïr sparring. She shifted her weight to her other hip and leaned against the split rail fence. They were practicing knife fighting with unsharpened blades, laughing and taunting each other.  
            Mari momentarily shifted her attention to Sirocco, who was also watching Altaïr and Ezio from the other side of the training ring. The succubus was demurely dressed, completely covered by the enveloping niqab and robes she was wearing. _She probably wears that for Altaïr_. It had not escaped her notice that, while not especially modest on her own, Sirocco took care to veil herself in public when she was with Altaïr; his possessiveness and jealousy were fairly well known around Alamūt at this point. _Modesty only goes so far though_ , she reflected surveying Sirocco’s veil and robes. While most women who veiled themselves wore unassuming dark colors, Sirocco’s were vibrant – warm creams and soft pastels, the fabrics filmy and fine, almost sheer and always embellished with metal embroidery and semi-precious stones. Today she wore celestial blue and gold.  
            Ezio crowed in triumph and Mari shifted her attention back to the two men in time to catch sight of Altaïr rubbing his ribs. _Looks like E-zo landed a strike_ , she thought with a smile, relieved that her brother seemed to be coming back to his normal self. Perhaps it was because she was distracted by her kinsmen, but she visibly started when Cesare leaned against the fence next to her; she added it to the long list of things she resented him for.  
            “Maria,” he purred, casually leaning into her, invading her personal space.  
            She shuddered at the way he always said her name, like he was lasciviously dragging his tongue over the syllables, savoring the taste. She took a sideways step away from him.  
            “Cesare.”  
            “You look _delicious_ this morning,” he commented, fishing a crumpled pack of Chesterfields out of his pocket. “Would you care for one?” he asked politely, offering the cigarettes to her.  
            “Altaïr would not approve,” she responded tartly with a sidelong look at him.  
            “Altaïr disapproves of lots of things,” Cesare responded as he lit his cigarette. “I’m sure he – and your brother – are going to disapprove of your bare legs and that short skirt.”  
            She turned to face Cesare with narrow-eyed dislike. Her skirt was not short – reaching nearly to her calves – and an unobjectionably drab olive green, which paired nicely with the simple cream blouse she was wearing; there was nothing about her outfit for Altaïr, or Ezio, to object to. Cesare was dressed in white linen trousers – no belt – and a lightweight, collarless shirt, completely unbuttoned, affording anyone who might care to look a full view of his admittedly spectacular torso.  
            “That bandage needs changing,” she commented with a jerk of her chin towards the bandages swaddling his shoulder, stiff with drying, tar-y black blood.  
            “Are you offering?” he asked, lips parting in a roguish smile.  
            “No.” Her eyes lingered over his bare chest and the lines of his throat, admiring his buttery white-gold skin in spite of herself.  
            “No?” he queried, innocently pulling back his shirt to reveal more of the bandage and leaning forward slightly to catch her eyes. She blushed guiltily but held his gaze.  
            “No,” she said stiffly. His eyes were a brilliant sea-green, flecked with gold; she felt like she could drown in them. “Is the wound infected?” she asked abruptly.  
            “No.” He grimaced. “This is what it looks like when someone survives being stabbed by one of your Order’s tainted blades.” He twitched his shirt closed, didn’t bother to button it and took a long drag off his cigarette.  
            “I’m sorry, we’re both sorry, about that,” she murmured dropping her eyes to her oxblood časbaks. “I don’t understand why he took it so badly; he’s broken up with people before.”  
            She could feel Cesare watching her in the stretching silence, her skin burning hot with uncomfortable awareness.  
            “He didn’t tell you the whole of it, did he?” Cesare asked softly.  
            Her body instinctively tensed at his tone. “The whole of what?” she asked, throat tight and burning.  
            “Cristina was pregnant; Ezio found out. He was positively thrilled at the thought of her having his baby; asked her to marry him – got her a ring and everything. Instead she broke it off with him after having an abortion,” Cesare said with brutal, unflinching simplicity. “The other guy, he’s a low-level fascist yes-man who may or may not actually give a damn about her.”  
            She wrapped her arms across her stomach as she doubled over and tried not to retch. She shouldn’t have asked; she didn’t want to know this.  
            “You okay?”  
            “No. I’m not,” she replied, gripping the fence’s topmost rail to steady herself. “Poor Ezio,” she whispered, glancing over at her brother. He and Altaïr had tossed aside their knives and were now grappling. She wondered how long it would be before one of them, probably her brother, resorted to hair pulling.  
            “He took it rather badly,” Cesare stated blandly, watching her intently as he sidled closer. “I have upset you.”  
            “You’ve just given me really upsetting news, of course you’ve upset me,” she snapped.  
            “I am sorry, that was not my intent,” Cesare murmured, sidling closer still.  
            “What do you want Cesare?” she asked warily.  
            “Why do think I must want something?” he quickly countered, eyes flicking down to her lips.  
            “Because you always do,” she snapped, irritable and uncomfortably aware of the space between them and the tickle between her breasts of the simple gold cross she always wore around her neck.  
            “Maybe I am just trying to be nice,” he purred, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the barren ground and kicking sand over it. He looked far too smug and self-satisfied for her liking.  
            She snorted derisively. “I highly doubt that.”  
            “Why?”  
            “Because you, Cesare Maraas, are not nice,” she snapped, jabbing her finger into his sternum emphatically. “You’re manipulative and underhanded –”  
            “You wound me,” he pouted, watching her with hungry, hooded eyes.  
            “–and a liar.”  
            “I can be kind,” he murmured, leaning in closer to scent her.  
            “When it’s to your benefit,” she quickly replied, placing both hands on his chest and trying to push him away.  
            “I saved your brother,” he reminded her, leaning into her shove. His chest was solid, immovable; she may as well have been trying to push down one of the fortresses defensive outer walls.  
            An unintelligible shout drew her attention back to the men in the training ring. _And there’s the start of the hair pulling_. She watched her brother laughing and taunting Altaïr, vibrant and alive, and her heart felt icy in her chest at the realization of how close she’d come to losing him. She crossed her arms and leaned forward against the top rail. She could tell they were both holding back, trying to let the other win without being obvious: Ezio so that Altaïr would look good in front of his lover – his _best girl_ she hastily corrected herself – and Altaïr to boost Ezio’s confidence, to make him look good in front of all their fellow assassins who were pretending not to be watching.  
            “True,” she whispered. She swallowed unsteadily and studied the rail her arms rested against while she collected her thoughts. The wood was smooth, bleached grayish-white from exposure to the elements; it reminded her of the bones she’d seen strewn across the Syrian desert. “Thank you, Cesare, truly.”  
            She watched Altaïr take a dive onto the sand, landing sprawled and seemingly vulnerable. _Don’t fall for that E-zo, it’s a trap_ , she thought forcefully, trying to will him to psychically hear her warning.  
            “I should tell you, the novices are all buzzing, trying to puzzle out who your lover might be,” Cesare murmured close to her ear, tone teasing, _predatory_.  
            Her body instinctively tensed as he moved behind her, bracing his hands against the rail on either side of her. “Excuse me?”  
            “Everyone knows you have been seeking out contraceptives,” he continued, silky soft and dangerous. “You know how they say, no smoke without a fire.”  
            “I don’t know where anyone got that idea,” she sniffed as she shifted her weight uneasily, thighs rubbing together, acutely aware that he had purposefully caged her against the fence with his body. She could feel dozens of eyes covertly watching them and she didn’t want to make a scene. _Iskender_ , she realized with a jolt. _That two-faced little rat!  
_             “Who’s the liar now?” he purred, lips brushing her ear. She shuddered, skin crawling and icy cold, but her blood felt like liquid fire, napalm, burning through her veins. “You really ought to be more careful of what you say in front of incurable gossips.”  
            “That Judas!” she swore, digging her nails into the weathered hard wood.  
            “We could shut these rumors down now, before they have a chance to reach Ezio and Altaïr,” he suggested, tracing a careful finger over the delicate buckles strapping her hidden blade to her forearm. “Can you just imagine how badly they will react?”  
            Ezio swore loudly in surprise as his feet were swept out from under him.  
            “ _We_?” She shot Cesare a suspicious look over her shoulder.  
            “Yes, Maria, _we_.”  
            She went perfectly still as he rolled his hips against her backside in a slow, suggestive grind; willed her breathing tranquil and shallow. _We strike like an eagle on the wind_ , she heard Altaïr’s often repeated admonition from training in the back on her mind.  
            “I am willing to publicly lay claim to you. No one will dare spread gossip while you have a Maraas in your bed, like your cousin Altaïr, we’re too valuable to your Order. And I promise, you’d enjoy every minute of it, in spite of yourself.” His teeth were needle sharp as he nipped her ear, breath hot and moist against her skin.  
            The cross around her neck felt heavier as unwelcomed heat blossomed between her thighs. _This is his doing, his magic, neither your will nor desire_ , she reminded herself. “Maria.” He said her name like a prayer, a plea for something she didn’t want to understand.  
            Altaïr’s triumphant crow of laughter abruptly cut out with a grunt as Ezio’s elbow came into contact with his solar plexus. _We strike like an eagle on the wind_.  
            She exhaled slowly willing the tension from her body and then she struck. He was completely unprepared for how quickly she turned on him, the sharp point of her elbow landing true to its mark on his wounded shoulder. The sound he made was somewhere between nails on a chalkboard and the screech of tearing metal, inhuman and chilling.  
            “Keep your hands off me, you monster,” she hissed, hidden blades unsheathing with her fury.  
            Sirocco stepped out of thin air and was beside Cesare in an instant, clasping a supportive arm around his waist as he wheezed in pain and glared at her with furious, molten eyes.  
            _Go fuck yourself_ , she thought, eyes narrowing with unchecked hostility.  
            “Mari?” Ezio called, questioning and concerned.  
            She took a deep, steadying breath and willed her blades to resheath. She unflinchingly met Cesare’s eyes for a painfully long moment before pivoting on the ball of her foot and striding back towards the living quarters.  
            “Maria!” Altaïr called after her, authoritative and stern.  
            She broke into a run. They were fast but she had a generous head start and no intention of being caught; she couldn’t stand to face either of them with Cesare’s words so fresh in her mind.


	7. Ezio: training day

            “You’re holding too much tension in your shoulder,” Altaïr commented, juggling the weight of a throwing knife between his fingers. “It’s interfering with your release,” he added as he spun and threw, his knife sinking deeply and cleanly into the training golem.  
            “I am aware,” Ezio ground out.  
            Altaïr glanced at him before dropping his eyes and fidgeting with his next knife. Ezio felt a jolt of guilt; he recognized that Altaïr was trying to help him in the only way he knew how, but that didn’t make his lectures on finer points of technique any less tedious. His aim would be a lot better if his hands were steadier, but his slight case of the tremors wasn’t that bad considering how recently he’d almost _died_ from alcohol poisoning.  
            “Of course you are,” Altaïr murmured. “My apologies, it’s hard to turn off some habits.”  
            “Yeah, I know,” Ezio replied, tensing for his next throw. He could feel halfway through his windup that it was going to be off; still, he was able to compensate and though it was an ugly throw, it went more or less where he intended. He glanced at Altaïr and nearly burst out laughing at the way his cousin was biting his lower lip to keep from commenting.  
            “It’s okay, Altaïr. I know you’re just trying to help,” he said with a smile and nudged his elbow against his cousin’s ribs.  
            “But it’s not helpful, is it,” Altaïr sighed, expertly sinking another knife into the meandering golem.  
            “You’re not, not-helpful,” Ezio replied with a tight smile he knew looked forced. His knife grazed the golem’s side and clattered against the back wall. “I’m usually much better at this.”  
            “I know.”  
            Ezio sighed and thoughtfully regarded the throwing knife in his hand as he heard Altaïr’s next throw hit its mark with a satisfyingly solid thunk. He didn’t remember going to the river. He didn’t remember stabbing Cesare in the shoulder when the incubus hauled him out so he wouldn’t drown. He wished he didn’t remember the things Cristina had said, that he never found out about the baby. He wasn’t supposed to know she had been pregnant, even at the end she had tried to keep that from him. He should have let her; he could have told himself he imagined it, or that she miscarried – anything to disguise the ugly truth that she’d had his child scraped out of her body, that she’d chosen to risk her immortal soul rather than allow any connection to remain between the two of them. “Hurt” was wholly inadequate to describe how he felt.  
            “Maybe we should do something else,” Altaïr suggested as he gently pried the throwing knife from Ezio’s hand. “Let’s go for a run.”  
            Ezio realized that he’d just been standing there staring at the blade in his hand, and Altair had been watching him, probably worrying and dissecting his every micro-expression.  
            “Sure, ok,” he mumbled, staring at his bleeding fingers; he hadn’t realized he was holding the knife that tightly.  
            “We can stop by the infirmary and get that looked at,” Altaïr offered, jerking his chin at Ezio’s hand.  
            _He must really be worried_ , Ezio noted distractedly. Altaïr was hardly inclined to be the coddling type. _Of course he’s worried about me after losing Malik_ , he realized with a nauseating rush of guilt. He almost apologized, but stopped himself just in time; Altaïr hated acknowledging that he had anything so _superfluous_ as _feelings_. He’d have to try harder to act like his normal self, to pretend everything was all right. _Fake it so it’s real_.  
            “Nah, it’s just a scratch; I’ll be fine. Let’s run, old man,” he said, clenching his injured fingers into a fist.  
            “As you desire,” Altaïr replied with a glassy-smooth smile as he broke into a jog. “Let me know if you need to rest or slow down or anything.”  
            Ezio snorted and broke into a run. “Try to keep up,” he called over his shoulder.  
            Altaïr grinned and easily fell in step at his side, letting him set their pace. That was one of the things he appreciate most about Altaïr – that he never pushed him to talk about anything before he was ready, but was always willing to listen when he did; it meant a lot to him that Altaïr wasn’t treating him like he was fragile or broken.  
            He was glad his mother had insisted that he recover at Alamūt; his uncle had wanted to keep him in Roma, where he would be slowly smothered with good intentions and guilt. Cesare had readily offered to escort him, but, despite his best efforts, his mother would not be dissuaded from accompanying them as well. _I’m not just going for you_ , his mother had sniffed defensively. _It’s been far too long since I last saw Altaïr_. His uncle had readily agreed to the arrangement, mostly, Ezio suspected, because he selfishly wanted a break from his sister-in-law. They’d traveled the mirror road because Cesare wasn’t strong enough to vanish all three of them; he and the incubus had barely been able to match his mother’s grueling pace.  
            He’d been to Alamūt many times over the years, but never with his mother since becoming an adult; he’d all but forgotten that she had grown up there, but Alamūt’s older assassins at had not forgotten her. He had been confused when Al Mualim greeted her as Maria ibn-La’Ahad, daughter of Cyrus, before he remembered that she had not always been Maria Auditore, wife and widow of Giovanni; that she had ranked fidā'ī in her own right and that his father’s name meant nothing in Alamūt. Al Mualim had made that perfectly clear, before Ezio collapsed from exhaustion and alcohol poisoning; he was welcomed in his disgraceful state only because he was _her_ son. _He trained me, you know_ , his mother had told him in the infirmary as she bathed his face with bitter water, _before he became Al Mualim. I don’t think he’s ever fully forgiven me for running off and marrying your father; he wanted me to stay and become a Master like my sister, Aaliyah_. She could only stay for a day, long enough to see him and Cesare settled, fuss over Altaïr and say a brief hello to Kadija, before she had to return to Roma. _I’ll be back for a proper visit when you’re feeling better and your sister has returned from her contract_ , she promised, pressing a kiss and a blessing to his brow. He was sad to see her go.  
            “I think Mother really likes Sirocco,” he wheezed, slowing to a jog to catch his breath.  
            “Really?” Altaïr positively beamed at him. “I’m so glad.”  
            “Why wouldn’t she?” he asked, hoping his pained grimace looked passably like a responsive smile. Altaïr, he noticed with surprise, wasn’t even breathing hard and, unsurprisingly, lacked the decency to pretend he found their run the slightest bit taxing. _I must be in worse shape than I had thought._  
            “Your sister doesn’t,” Altaïr bluntly responded with a scowl.  
            Ezio snorted in annoyance. _God-fucking-damn it, Mari_. It seemed like he was doomed to spend his entire life playing family peacemaker between male relatives and women named Maria. He said a quick prayer that his mother and uncle didn’t kill each other while he was away.  
            “You know how Mari is; don’t pay her any mind,” he said soothingly, trying to ignore how his lungs felt like a raw open wound in his chest and that his feet were weighted with sandbags. “She’s just, you know, _prickly_ , about new people.”  
            “She liked Cristina,” Altaïr observed dryly.  
            Hearing her name, spoken so casually, felt like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. He stopped short, bracing his hands on his knees as he hungrily gulped great burning lungfuls of thin air and tried not to cry. He hadn’t thought it was even possible to feel this much pain without a physical injury.  
            “Ezio?” Altaïr looked concerned – genuinely, openly, _concerned_ – and Ezio suddenly felt so incredibly guilty for becoming yet another burden for his cousin to shoulder.  
            “Yeah, I’m okay,” he choked, gulping serrated sobs back down his parched throat. “I think, I think I just got some sand-dust-stuff in my lungs… and eyes. Jesus, it’s dry here.”  
            “Yeah, it is. Especially coming from Rome; that place is a practically a swamp in comparison,” Altaïr agreed, rubbing soothing circles on Ezio’s upper back. “Deep breaths, habibi, take your time and catch your breath.”  
            Ezio nodded and gulped a couple more greedy deep breaths. “Practically? It _is_ a swamp.” He paused. “Everyone liked Cristina.”  
            Altaïr’s hand stilled on his upper back. “I didn’t.”  
            “What?”  
            “I didn’t like her,” Altaïr repeated after a moment’s hesitation.  
            “You only met her once,” Ezio protested incredulously as he turned to face his cousin. “And you couldn’t even talk to her because you _still_ haven’t learned Italian.”  
            “I already speak three languages,” Altaïr replied, arching a brow and crossing his arms across his chest.  
            “You’re not counting Turkish, are you?” Ezio asked suspiciously. “Because everyone agrees your Turkish is absolutely terrible.”  
            “Just because I couldn’t understand the words she was saying doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening to _how_ they were said,” Altaïr responded, neatly side-stepping the question of his proficiency in Turkish. Ezio was almost tempted to press him on the subject, but Altaïr’s next words stopped him cold.  
            “I could tell you loved more strongly than she, and why should I like someone too stupid to appreciate how blessed they are to be in your affection?” Altaïr continued, selecting each word with obvious care.  
            His temper flared, hot and defensive, and he almost fired off a hard retort before the meaning behind Altaïr’s words sank in and his temper deflated like a pricked balloon. “You never said,” Ezio said slowly, studying Altaïr’s face carefully.  
            “You never asked.” Altaïr looked away with shrug. “I didn’t think it was my place to offer unsolicited observations, especially when you seemed so happy with her.”  
            Ezio felt his heart lurch in his chest. _Yes, I was happy with her. Wanted to spend the rest of my life loving her._ His uncle and mother had railed against Cristina, united – for once – in vitriol and venom, and seemed to have forgotten how happy she had made him, that all of his love for her hadn’t just vanished with a flip of a switch. It was nice to have that acknowledged.  
            “I think,” he said slowly, cautiously, “that might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite a while. Thank you, Altaïr.”  
            “It’s not that nice,” Altaïr grunted, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the dusty trail.  
            “Yeah, well,” Ezio sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. “I guess I’ve got low standards.”  
            Altaïr nearly choked on the laughter he was trying to suppress. “You said it, not me.” He laughed outright at Ezio’s responsive scowl. “Come on, let’s head back.”  
            “I’m fine,” Ezio ground out, eyes narrowing in annoyance.  
            “I know,” Altaïr replied with an easy shrug and a smile. “But I’m in need of a cool drink and a shower before I see Siro.”  
            “I can’t argue with those priorities,” Ezio conceded with an impatient huff as he turned back towards the walls of Alamūt. He recognized that Altaïr was trying to be kind, to shield his pride from having to admit that he wasn’t up to training on his cousin’s level – which, quite frankly, seemed to have ratcheted up quite a few notches since he last saw him. He was more frustrated with himself than ungrateful to Altaïr. Even if an outside observer wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between the two emotions, he was sure his cousin understood – just because Altaïr avoided talking about feelings didn’t mean he was oblivious to them, something it seems his sister had trouble remembering. _God-fucking-damn it, Mari_.  
            Alamūt’s outer defensive walls loomed over them, the medieval stone scarred by long ago sieges and the passage of time; he felt small in their shadows. Everything about the massive Assassin complex made him feel small, somehow lesser than he felt in Roma – the sprawling training facilities, the cavernous library, but especially the castle itself – a great hulkering stone bastion looming over the fertile valley below like a watchful bird of prey.  
            “Let’s go to the cabaret for dinner tonight,” Altaïr surprised him by suggesting.  
            “You hate going to the cabaret,” Ezio replied, sliding a suspicious look at his cousin.  
            “I don’t hate the cabaret,” Altaïr protested. “I appreciate many things about it.”  
            “Such as?” Ezio pressed, biting back a smile. Anything Altaïr appreciated about the cabaret was probably from a distance.  
            “Many dancers are extraordinary athletes.”  
            “Many dancers are extraordinary athletes?” Ezio repeated incredulously. “That’s the best you can do? This was Sirocco’s idea, wasn’t it?”  
            They stopped before the entrance to the training grounds’ bathhouse and Altaïr delayed responding by engaging in some extraordinarily through stretching.  
            “Wasn’t it?” Ezio asked again. He knew Altaïr seldom lied, he usually just avoided answering or equivocated and was so good at both that most people didn’t even notice that he’d never answered what they actually asked him; Ezio always noticed. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Altaïr’s suggestion was earnest, just that going for a night out to cabaret was an idea he would come up with on his own.  
            “She may have mentioned something about it, some passing comment, but nothing specific comes to mind,” Altaïr replied as he jogged down the stairs to the baths.  
            Ezio rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh and followed him. “You don’t have to suffer through an evening at the cabaret on my account, you know.”  
            “I know.” Altaïr peeled off his shirt and tossed it into the communal laundry basket. “I suggested it because I thought it would make an enjoyable outing, you know, if a group of us went or something.” He shrugged uncomfortably, kicked off his training shoes and shucked his socks into the laundry basket as well.  
            Ezio felt his eyebrows rise at the number of marks marring the smooth skin of his cousin’s torso. Altaïr shot a suspicious look towards him and he quickly obscured his expression by hastily removing his own shirt.  
            “Yeah, okay. That sounds good,” Ezio replied as he gingerly dropped his shirt in the laundry basket and tried to suppress a shiver as the cool air of the subterranean room came into contact with his sweat-slick skin. He felt disgusting – cold, clammy and positively rank with the residual alcohol being sweated out of his system. _Oh yeah, I’m sure everyone has been just clamoring to spend an evening with me._ Ezio stopped; he had hardly noticed that he had gotten used to feeling this loathsome lately. It might be good for him to go out, a chance for a bit of his usual swagger return.  
            “So that’s a yes?” Altaïr asked with a grin as he dumped the remainder of this clothing into the laundry basket and grabbed a fresh towel off the stack.  
            “Yeah, okay,” Ezio sighed, throwing his clothes into the laundry basket with more force than strictly necessary. He quickly glanced at Altaïr before averting his eyes and grabbing a clean towel of his own. He wasn’t in the habit of staring, really, but he wasn’t modest, and his cousin’s injuries did not stop at the waist. It was hard not to notice, and Ezio winced just glancing, noticing how Altaïr – who also was decidedly not modest – turned artfully from his view.  
            “Bene,” Altaïr replied, slinging his towel over his shoulder as he strode towards the showers.  
            Ezio grimaced. “That’s not how you say it. I swear to god, you do it on purpose, don’t you?”  
            “Come on tortoise, you’re not getting any cleaner just standing there,” Altaïr called back over his shoulder.  
            “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming,” Ezio grumbled as he slouched after his cousin towards the showers.  
            Altaïr had always been unwilling to discuss the physical aspect of his relationship with Sirocco, no matter how many times Ezio asked. He couldn’t help but be curious – at first glance having a succubus for a lover seemed like a dream come true, but the more he thought about it the more amazed he was that Altaïr wasn’t crushed by the daunting task of pleasing a succubus, by the constant worry and doubt as to the constancy of her affections and the adequacy of one’s own attentions. Ezio tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Those marks were not from recent contracts; Altaïr was too skilled to be injured in combat much these days, and his real battle wounds were older and faded. He was uncomfortable with the sudden knowledge that that Altaïr was not unscathed by his relationship with Sirocco. The love bites and scratch marks, even the scattered actual bite marks, he understood and shrugged off – _if that’s what he’s into, good for them_ – but the abrasions gave him pause. He knew that his mother’s girls took the next day off after being with Cesare – sometimes a few days, if they could afford it – and he hadn’t understood why, but if their insides looked anything like Altaïr’s outsides… now he understood perfectly.  
            He hung his towel from an empty hook and balefully eyed the shower; he hated the showers at Alamūt. There was no way to control the temperature of the water, which, while never actually cold, was never actually hot, either. He pounded the side of his fist against the solitary button with an aggravated sigh and stepped into the resulting deluge of tepid water and turned quickly, making sure his skin was evenly soaked. The water only ran for a short period every time the button was pressed, an excellent method for encouraging water conservation, less so for having an enjoyable showering experience – in his opinion. He glanced over at Altaïr, who was leaning forward into the stream of water, one hand braced against the button while he raked the other through his thick hair. Ezio’s water stopped and he irritably punched the button again before reaching for a cake of soap and working up a lather. _At least they pay up for decent soap_ , he thought with grim satisfaction. The same could not always be said for the motherhouse in Roma – he had vividly unpleasant memories of a particularly dubious batch of soap that smelled strongly of turpentine; he suspected his uncle had been exceptionally drunk when he ordered it. He glanced over at the sound of a sharply indrawn breath and saw Altaïr, brow furrowed and jaw clenched, as he rinsed soapy water from his groin. _Soap on raw skin, yeah, I bet that hurts. Jesus, Altaïr_.  
            “Looks like you’ve been putting your kidney-buster in a meat grinder,” he blurted out, and then mentally kicked himself for his stupidity. _That’s not the way to start that conversation, idiota_. As predicted, Altaïr was not amused.  
            “I beg your pardon?” Altaïr snapped, eyes narrowed dangerously.  
            “Nothing,” Ezio quickly replied, focusing his attention on carefully soaping his chest and shoulders. “Forget I said that. It was in poor taste, I’m sorry.”  
            “Good,” Altaïr grunted and slammed his hand into the shower button.  
            “The healers make this one unguent – smells like cloves – that works like some sort of magic eraser on contusions and abrasions. I’ve got a pot with me if they don’t have it in stock in the infirmary,” Ezio offered, thoughtlessly slamming his elbow into the shower button. He winced at the resulting thrill that radiated along his arm.  
            “Yeah, thanks. I’ll check that out,” Altaïr replied, wrapping his towel around his waist and slicking his hair back, using both hands to squeeze out as much water as possible in the process. “I’m going to look in on Cesare, see how he’s doing. Do you mind if he and Siro join us for dinner, maybe Kadija too?”  
            “Sounds good,” Ezio bobbed a quick nod before ducking back under the showerhead. “Oh, do you mind if I ask Asad along?”  
            “The medic?” Altaïr asked, tilting his head questioningly.  
            “That’s the one,” Ezio confirmed, wringing water from his hair.  
            “When do you want to go, around six or so, maybe?” Altaïr hummed as he leaned back against the cold tile wall.  
            “Yeah, six sounds good,” Ezio grunted as he wrapped his towel around his waist and tried to comb his fingers through the tangles of his hair. His tonsils contracted and his eyes burned as he remembered how Cristina used to have him lay across her lap while she worked a comb through his wet hair, how she used to join him in his after-training showers and rub the knots from his muscles before riding him like an amazon. He missed her so much.  
            “Do they still serve that god-awful palm wine?” he asked, rubbing his eyes to disguise his sudden tears; he was so damn tired of crying and hurting.  
            “I fail to see how that matters, since you won’t be drinking any of it even if they do,” Altaïr replied, tone crisp with disapproval and a shade of something darker Ezio couldn’t quite put his finger on.  
            The silence stretched several painful heartbeats too long and the hairs along the back of his neck prickled, warning mixed with anticipation.  
            “You almost _died_ , Ezio! You almost drank yourself _to death_ , over that woman. It’s time you focused on _living,_ for your family at least, if you won’t for your own sake,” Altaïr savagely burst out. “Aunt Maria made me promise to look after you, safeguard you to the best of my ability. How will I ever be able to face her, your sister, or myself, if I fail?”  
            “I’m a grown fucking man, I don’t need to be babysat, Altaïr,” Ezio yelled, voice ringing off the tiled walls and ceiling. “I don’t need-”  
            “I can’t stand by and just watch-”  
            “-you can’t _swoop in_ and save me-”  
            “-how can you be so selfish and inflict such grief on your mother, on your sister, your uncle-”  
            “-leave me alone. Just Leave Me The Fuck-”  
            “Gentlemen!”  
            They both took a hasty step back from each other and spun towards the speaker, argument frozen midsentence. Selim al-Hashem, another one of Alamūt’s Masters, stalked into the room, grizzled dark brows lowered in a fierce scowl.  
            “You two are fighting like a pair of _feral dogs_ ; it’s frightening my novices. Stop it,” the older master commanded, crossing powerful arms across his broad chest.  
            “My apologies, effendi. You are right to admonish us; this is neither the time nor the place for this discussion,” Altaïr murmured stiffly.  
            Ezio remained stubbornly silent, arms crossed across his chest as he chewed the inside of his cheek and slid his eyes to the far wall. He thought it would feel _good_ to be angry, a welcomed change from the grief and guilt and self-pity he’d been drowning in; it didn’t.  
            “Argument, Altaïr. That could not, even charitably, be classified as a _discussion_ ,” Selim corrected, words clipped short with annoyance. “A _discussion_ involves the reasoned exchange of ideas, which cannot be accomplished while bellowing at one another at the top of your voices.” Ezio heard Altaïr’s teeth grind as he leveled a flinty look at Selim. The older man sighed. “Take your temper and be on your way. Safety and peace, effendi.”  
            “Safety and peace,” Altaïr replied, bowing his head slightly. He shot a quick glance towards his cousin. “Dinner at six?”  
            Ezio shifted his weight and unsuccessfully tried to swallow the knot of guilt that had sprung up his throat as he thought – just for a moment – of canceling, of how he just wanted to brood and tell his cousin off. “Yeah. Dinner at six. Meet at your chambers,” he choked out huskily; his voice felt ragged.  
            Altaïr jerked a nod and stalked away, spine as tense and straight as an I-beam.  
            Selim smiled wryly. “I guess it takes the name Auditore to really get under our Altaïr’s skin; I never saw he and Malik fight like this.”  
            “Malik was better at waiting to be somewhere private before brawling,” Ezio shot back, adjusting the towel around his hips, resentful of how casually the older man brought up Malik, as though it shouldn’t hurt to be reminded of his loss, that he’d never play with the twins again or eat Sakineh’s shole-zard.  
            Selim’s sudden sharp bark of laughter echoed eerily off the cavernous room’s tiled surfaces, like the cry of a jackal across the desert. “His mother always was the nice one.”  
            He felt an embarrassed flush heat his cheeks; he wasn’t used to being around people who knew his mother before her marriage, who knew the aunts he barely remembered well enough to meaningfully different between them. He’d been three when Malik’s mother, Bernice, died of Spanish Flu in 1919 and eight when Altaïr’s mother, Aaliyah, didn’t come back from a contract; he only remembered their faces from pictures his mother kept.  
            “I’ll have to take your word for it, effendi,” Ezio replied, moving towards the door.  
            “Stay a moment, Ezio Auditore,” Selim commanded softly.  
            Ezio paused and half turned to level a challenging look at the older man. “I think our conversation has finished, effendi.”  
            “Only just a moment,” Selim smiled, unfazed by Ezio’s naked hostility. “It is not in Altaïr’s nature to linger after a conflict.”  
            Ezio exhaled slowly and crossed his arms across his chest, but he waited. He knew what Selim was doing and he resented it, but couldn’t refuse unless he wanted to pay for his insolence of a moment ago; he could fake introspection if that’s what it took. Water slowly dripped down his body from his hair where it brushed against his shoulders, the heavy locks cold against his skin. Cristina had always been touching his hair – running her hands through it when they were in bed, carefully curling locks of it around her fingers as they listened to the wireless or talked about how they had spent their days apart, sometimes she braided it and he’d even let her put flowers in it, but only once, well, _maybe_ twice. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to cut it off.  
            “That should be time enough,” Selim hummed, hands folded behind his back as he drifted towards the door. “Safety and peace, effendi.”  
            “Safety and peace,” Ezio reflexively replied, but Selim was already gone and he was alone in the roaring silence.


	8. Cristina: remembrances

            _Too thin, too grim and not clever enough by half_. Cristina studied her reflection in the kitchenette’s window as she stirred milk into her morning coffee. She put the milk away with a sigh and drifted back to where she’d left her coffee on the counter, absently rubbing a hand across her abdomen. She was sorely tempted to call in sick, except she wasn’t actually sick – just sad – and being at work usually made her feel, maybe not exactly happy, but accomplished and useful, which was close enough. Her flatmate, Rosa, was still in the bathroom; she looked at the clock and then poured the cup of coffee she’d made for her made into a thermos. _She’s going to make us late_.  
            The steam from her coffee fogged her glasses when she lifted the cup to her lips. It was still too hot but she drank it anyway, savoring the way it burned her mouth and throat as an additional penance on top of the hours and hours she’d spent at prayer. She felt bad about the abortion, of course, and there were things she regretted – not being more careful in the first place and that Ezio found out –but not her decision.  
            What she really regretted was how it ended with Ezio. Every time she thought of him death itself reached into her chest and squeezed her heart in its cold bony hands. She hadn’t been prepared for it to hurt this much, she’d thought it would be easier after the years of prolonged absences – sometimes she wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time – but it wasn’t. She had known she’d probably have to tell him about Jacopo at some point, but she’d hoped that it never came up, that he would find someone else or just stop coming back or that things between her and Jacopo wouldn’t work out. She wanted to pretend she hadn’t known how he felt about her, that _I love you_ had fallen too sweetly and easily from his lips to be true, but in her heart she had known. She’d panicked when he had asked about the baby, gotten angry that he had known and had lashed out at him, calling him names that better fit her – _monster, murderer_ – and wielded the truth like a weapon to hurt and maim. She saw the ring too late, after he left, and she felt positively gutted by the finality of what had happened, of what she’d done, and now it was too late to chase after him and try to take it all back. He’d left it on the table; it was cold on her finger, a perfect fit and she hadn’t taken it off.  
            There was a sudden crash and Rosa exploded into the kitchenette like a landmine. “Cristo, it’s late! Did you make me any coffee?” she gasped, tying a kerchief over her riotous dark hair.  
            Silently Cristina handed her the thermos and went to the sink to rinse her cup out.  
            “You’re the absolute _best_ ,” Rosa gushed, flinging an arm around her waist in an exuberant hug. Absently she patted Rosa’s arm and tried not to cry. Rosa noticed the ring still on her finger and her brow furrowed in concern, creasing the heavy pancake foundation she’d applied to cover her freckles.  
            “Cristina,” Rosa said slowly, carefully, like she was spun glass that would shatter at the slightest touch.  
            “We’re going to be late,” Cristina interrupted her quickly, not wanting to hear what her friend was about to say.  
            Just as she always had since they had met in their first year at Beauxbatons, Rosa – blunt, determined, but always well-intentioned – barreled on. “Have you tried writing to him? Maybe you two can work things out? I mean he was positively head over heels for you-”  
            Cristina was already shaking her head. She didn’t want to talk about Ezio and how everything went wrong and how maybe she’d made a big mistake, not right now, maybe not ever.  
            “He loves you-”  
            “Not anymore,” she replied, voice brittle and tight. She gulped a deep breath before continuing. “He knew I was pregnant” – her voice cracked on the word and Rosa winced sympathetically – “and I got so mad that he’d found out, that he’d been snooping and spying on me, and I told him what I’d done and I said a bunch of other things, I don’t even know why, maybe just out of spite, but he’s never coming back Rosa, never.” And then her self-control shattered and she was crying on the kitchen floor, ugly, unrestrained sobbing and it felt like it would never stop.  
            She was very late to work.

 

            The senior librarian took one look at her red-rimmed eyes and pale face and assigned her to reshelving for the day. The library was mostly empty, the enveloping hush marred only by the occasional rattling of the older and more querulous tomes. The soothing quiet and monotony allowed her mind wander, drifting to memories and worries.  
            Her parents had never known what to do with her magic; mostly they pretended not to notice it. When the ministry official visited their house on her eleventh birthday and explained about witches and wizards and wands and magic, her mother had fainted. She’d attended Beauxbatons, because it was closer, and her parents were proud to tell their friends that their daughter was going to school in France. The worst part was that she was mediocre with magic – she had just enough to alienate her from the muggle world she’d known but not enough to overcome the stigma of her _dirty blood_ in the wizarding one she was forced into. She’d met Ezio when she was twenty and had resigned herself to spinsterhood because no man – wizard or muggle – was interested in a skinny girl with lank, mousy-brown hair and glasses and, even worse, opinions.  
            At first she hadn’t taken him seriously. He was charming and attractive and always asked her opinions like he was actually interested and she was positively certain he was only feigning interest to get in her pants. But he kept coming by to see her, to ask about her day and her thoughts on some such book or event and, ever so shyly, if she’d like to get coffee or dinner or see a show until finally she said yes and then he really shocked her by behaving like a perfect gentleman the whole evening; he hadn’t even kissed her goodnight and she was surprised at how disappointed she was that he hadn’t. At first he didn’t tell her much about what he did for a living, only that he’d joined the _family business_ – he said the words with an ironic lilt she hadn’t really understood at the time. Sometimes he talked about his family and she loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his younger sister, his mother, his uncle and he even told her some about his cousins living abroad. Eventually she invited him back to her flat and they would cuddle on the couch listening to the wireless. He was hesitant to kiss her at first but once he finally did he couldn’t stop. He’d pull her onto his lap and kiss her with heat and need and she could feel the length of him hard and ready, only separated from the fragile barrier of her virginity by the few thin layers of their clothing. She’d felt powerful and maybe just a little beautiful.  
            They’d been seeing each other for a year and a half, although he was away so much the actual amount of time they spent together was far less, before she asked him to stay the night. He had insisted on sleeping on the couch and was already gone when she and Rosa got up in the morning. He’d left a stack of coins on the counter and Rosa only half-jokingly commented that she should invite him to stay the night more often. He slept on their couch a few more times the following six months before she was able to get him to stay for breakfast the next morning and it was a couple more months after that before he first stayed for a weekend when Rosa went home to visit her parents.  
            Cristina left off picking at her sandwich to button her cardigan. The fall breeze was developing a crisp edge, a reminder of approaching winter in the balmy mid-day sunshine. She finished the meat and cheese out of her sandwich and crumbled the bread, scattering the pieces for the waiting birds. It was only a matter of time before Jacopo noticed the ring. She contemplated it glumly, tilting her hand so the stones glittered in the sunlight – three large cushion-cut rubies, set in delicate gold filigree – absolutely perfect in every way; she couldn’t bring herself to take it off and she had no idea what she’d tell Jacopo if he questioned her about it. She stood, brushed the last clinging crumbs of her lunch off her skirt and tucked the treatise she had been meaning to read – _The Twelve Uses of Dragon’s Blood_ – back into her bag. With an uncomfortable twinge of self-awareness she wondered if she found it so hard to read the treatise because she knew no one would ask her about it, be interested in her thoughts on the subject matter; only Ezio had ever done that.  
            She hadn’t fully appreciated how much space in her life he had carved out for himself until he wasn’t there to fill it.


	9. Maria: gossip

            “I can’t believe no one told me Altaïr sugars his chest,” Isra pouted, nudging Mari with the side of her foot.  
            “Don’t,” she said, sighing in annoyance, “you’ll get polish on me.” Most of the time Isra was a fairly harmless gossip – she simply wasn’t popular enough to know or spread anything really interesting or damaging – but when she got on an Altaïr tear Maria found her absolutely intolerable.  
            “And smudge your nails,” Zahra added, with a quick, conspiratorial smile at Mari. Isra quickly retracted her foot and inspected her freshly painted toenails with a worried frown.  
            Mari returned her friend’s smile before quickly dropping her eyes back to Zahra’s nails, which she was painting with meticulous care. Her time would have been better spent doing almost anything else – nail polish rarely lasted past a day of training without chipping – but the laughter and lighthearted frivolity that invariably accompanied nail painting reminded her of happier times back home, which was something she felt sorely in need of at the moment.  
            “You’re so unkind, Mari,” Isra sighed. “You know I’m madly in love with him but you won’t do a thing to help me. He probably doesn’t even know I exist,” she added with a forlorn wail.  
            “Stop distracting her, Isra,” Zahra scolded. “Or at least wait until after she’s finished painting the feathers on my nails,” she added impishly. “You can cry over your hopelessly unrequited love to your poor, battered heart’s content then.”  
            Mari snorted. “No wonder you’re still an apprentice, Zahra; that was the most wildly transparent ploy to get more elaborate nail art I’ve ever seen,” she said with a laugh.  
            Her friend laughed good naturedly and turned to gossip with Isra. Mari tuned out their chatter, occasionally humming noncommittal responses as she carefully painted each peacock feather. The painstakingly detailed design Zahra had chosen was surprisingly soothing, requiring enough attention and focus that there wasn’t much left for brooding over the morning’s events.  
            After striking Cesare she’d fled through the gardens into the fortress itself. Ezio had stopped to see to the injured incubus, but Altaïr had given chase. She had run until it felt as though her lungs would burst – taking unexpected turns, weaving and backtracking through the honeycomb of rooms, hallways and buildings of the massive assassin complex – and still he followed in an easy loping run, using the special vision so particular to their order to track her. Just when she thought her legs were going to collapse under her she’d come across one of the Order’s house elves and managed to convinced her to vanish them both to a distant point within the complex. She’d caught her breath in the library, persuaded the elf to keep her secret, and made her way to her friend’s chambers, imagining with satisfaction the look on Altaïr’s face when her trail just stopped cold. It wasn’t the first time Mari had needed Zahra’s help avoiding Altaïr, and, as always, Zahra had hidden her without a second thought. She hoped however Zahra ended up serving the Order’s interests they would be able to stay close. Ideally, Zahra would become an fidā'ī as well, but it seemed much more likely she would become a shadowbroker; she was smart, charming, socially savvy and a little too squeamish about blood and bodily injury to really make a good fidā'ī or medic.  
            She had paused to clean her brush between colors when she felt Zahra’s nudge, jolting her from her reverie.  
            “Isra asked how you and Altaïr are related,” Zahra prompted her with a smile before turning to Isra and commenting “she’s always like this when she’s painting; you’ll have to forgive her.”  
            Mari cleared her throat with a small, embarrassed cough and flashed the other girls a sheepish smile. “She’s right; I get totally, hopelessly, absorbed when I’m painting. My apologies.”  
            “Never mind about that,” Isra said with an impatient wave of her hand. “How are you related to Altaïr?”  
            “Her great unrequited love,” Zahra quipped with a laugh, earning a stormy look from Isra.  
            “He is my mother’s sister’s son,” Mari said slowly. “We share a set of grandparents.”  
            “Have you and he always been close?” Isra asked quickly, eyes glittering with something Mari couldn’t quite put her finger on, causing her skin to prickle.  
            “We’re not that close,” she replied uncomfortably.  
            “But you go to his chambers at all hours of the night, don’t you?” Isra pressed.  
            Mari shifted uneasily and twisted a curl around her forefinger. _The disadvantage to living at Alamūt_ , she reflected, _is constantly being surrounded by people trained to sneak and spy and notice everything_.  
            “You must have somehow missed it, Isra, but Altaïr isn’t _exactly_ what you’d call warm and approachable,” Zahara cut in quickly, trying to derail Isra’s inquisition. “I don’t imagine that he allows anyone to get that friendly with him.”  
            “That can’t be true!” Isra protested, turning a beseeching looking to Mari. “There has to be a few people?”  
            “Well,” Mari hesitated, “he and Kadija have always had a close relationship; they seem to be very fond of each other. And I know my brother thinks of him almost as a brother. I believe Altaïr feels the same.” She carefully smoothed the hairs of her brush. “He was very close to Malik, and his family, before they died.”  
            Zahra’s mouth twisted as she reflexively clasped Mari’s hand with hard squeeze. “I’m sorry, Mari. I heard some of the older assassins talking about that; your cousin seems to have been respected and very well-liked.”  
            Isra had enough good manners to look uncomfortable.  
            “Thanks, Zar,” Mari whispered, returning her friend’s squeeze.  
            She hadn’t really known Malik well, and his wife and children even less. She knew their loss was felt most keenly by Altaïr out of the three of them. Most of their fellow assassins seemed to think he was largely unaffected, but she’d been in close proximity to him long enough to see the signs of his grief; he’d been withdrawn, moody, he’d eaten less and brooded more. She was grateful for Sirocco – perhaps for the first time – for the way she was bringing Altaïr back from his grief, and for the how she was able to reach Ezio in ways she and Altaïr would never be able to. _Speaking of Sirocco…_  
            “Oh, Isra, I almost forgot. I should probably mention the person Altaïr is closest to is his _lover_ , Sirocco Maraas. I’m sure you’ve seen her around, someone that beautiful _is_ hard to miss,” she said sweetly.  
            “His what?” Isra shrieked, utterly aghast.  
            “Mmm, she’s the one with the really long hair and pale skin, big eyes and a figure to die for, right?” Zahra asked with a guileless smile.  
            “That’s her,” Mari confirmed blithely, squeezing Zahra’s hand and flicking her eyes to Isra’s stricken expression. It was a harsh blow, but in the long run she thought it would be kinder for Isra to learn Altaïr was unavailable sooner rather than later. “She’s a _succubus_ ,” she added with a sidelong look at Zahra, who burst into embarrassed giggles.  
            “But he can’t be serious about her,” Isra protested. “She’s not the type he could take to meet his mother,” she added mulishly.  
            “His mother has been dead nearly as long as I’ve been alive, Isra. I don’t think that’s really a concern for him,” Mari replied with another sidelong glance at Zahra. _Take a hint already, Jesus_.  
            “I think what Mari is trying to tell you, Isra, is that Altaïr is basically unattainable,” Zahra said kindly, resting a gentle hand on Isra’s shoulder. “Even if he wasn’t already _involved_ ” – she winced at the euphemism – “with someone, he’s been a Master for a long time, and he became a Master really, really young. That’s not _normal_ – sorry Mari, but it’s really not – no one is supposed to naturally be that good at killing and I’m not so sure that all adds up to good husband material.”  
            Isra shrugged away from Zahra’s hand. “Well perhaps _Maria_ can point me towards some _good husband material_ , since I’m sure _she’s_ in a position to know,” Isra bit out, leveling an openly hostile look at Mari.  
            “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously.  
            “I don’t think-” Zahra began.  
            “Just that you’re not exactly known for being stingy with your virtue,” Isra shot back. “Everyone saw you getting all handsy with that man earlier.”  
            “That’s not-” Zahra protested.  
            “What man?” Mari scoffed. “You mean _Cesare_? He’s not a man, he’s a _Maraas_ , who also happens to be an old family friend from Italy. And the only thing _everyone_ saw earlier was me putting him in his place when he tried to get fresh.”  
            “He’s a Maraas?” Zahra asked, eyes like saucers.  
            “It seems having a taste for the Maraas runs in your family,” Isra sneered as she stood and brushed off her robes. “I’m leaving before people start thinking I’m _anything_ like _you_.”  
            “Isra-” Zahra protested.  
            “I wouldn’t worry Isra, no one will _ever_ mistake _you_ for a fidā'ī,” Mari retorted, flicking out her blades.  
            “Mari-”  
            Isra slammed the door on her way out.  
            Mari closed her eyes and slowly counted to ten. Her blades retracted.  
            “So what’s this about being seen with a Maraas?” Zahra asked cautiously.  
            Mari sighed and opened her eyes. _God damn it, Cesare_.  
            “Cesare has an inexplicable,” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “ _fascination_ with me. I’ve known him since I was a child. I’ve never encouraged him, but as you can probably tell, that hasn’t gotten him to lay off.”  
            “Wow,” Zahra breathed.  
            Mari shot her an incredulous look. “What?”  
            Just, wow,” Zahra said with a smile. “I mean that’s one hell of a compliment, isn’t it? What _is_ he?”  
            Mari nervously toyed with the delicate buckles of her hidden blades’ holsters. “He’s, um, he’s an incubus.” She’d have given anything not to blush.  
            Zahra’s jaw dropped as she clamped a hand over her mouth. “A _sex demon_ , who can have his way with pretty much anyone he chooses, has a _crush_ on you?”  
            “He doesn’t have a _crush_ on me. I don’t know what his thing is, but it’s not that,” she insisted. She hesitated, fingers twisted together, reminding herself that she could trust Zahra. “Just between us?”  
            “Of course,” Zahra assured her, leaning forward eagerly.  
            “Altaïr’s relationship with Sirocco frightens me,” she admitted hesitantly as she smoothed a rather persistent crease out of out of the blankets on Zahra’s bed.  
            “How so?”  
            “I think he’s really invested in her. Emotionally,” she clarified at Zahra’s confused look. “And I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when she gets tired of him.”  
            “What makes you think she’s going to get tired of him?” Zahra asked, examining her nails.  
            “You’ve met Altaïr,” she replied dryly.  
            Zahra smiled and ducked her head to hide her laugh. “Sometimes I wonder if you have, Mari.”  
            “What do you mean?” she asked with a bemused smile. “Of course I’ve met him. I mean, I think I know him fairly well even.”  
            “I think you know your _idea_ of who he is but haven’t actually gotten to know who he _really_ is,” Zahra explained, carefully steepling her fingertips. _You’ve hardly tried to get to know him_ , Ezio had said to her only the night before. “I mean, you’re the only person I’ve ever seen talk back to him, then just walk away.”  
            Mari frowned and thoughtfully scratched her knee. “Yeah, I guess. I should go. He’s looking for me and I’m sure Isra’s told him where I am by now.”  
            Zahra snorted. “She’ll have to catch him before she can talk to him.”  
            Mari burst out laughing. She clapped a hand over her mouth and had almost succeeded in composing herself, but then she caught sight of Zahra’s lips twitching as she too tried not to laugh and both of their resistances crumbled. Isra had been wrong: Altaïr knew _exactly_ who she was, and he did his upmost to avoid her.  
            “Besides,” Zahra huffed, beet-red from laughter, as she flapped a hand at her. “You still need to finish my feathers, Mari. You can’t just leave the job half done.”  
            “No,” Mari agreed, selecting a bottle of lacquer. “I don’t suppose I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially at the halfway point of the season!


	10. Ezio: cabaret (1/2)

            The cabaret was located on the edge of the town of Alamūt, in the valley below the fortress.  The whole area, valley, town and fortress, was heavily warded, unplottable and remote.  Because of the pervasive Assassin presence, most of the townsfolk who weren’t already part of the Order spoke at least some Arabic – including the majority of the staff of the restaurant that housed the cabaret – which was a godsend for assassins like Ezio, who spoke little to no Farsi.  
            The cabaret itself was very loud and rather dimly lit, but the food wasn’t bad, the dancers were pretty enough and Ezio had to admit that Altaïr was right – it was nice to be away from the fortress.  Their table was in the back, off to the side, on a step above the rest of the sunken dining area before the stage.  There were a few other occupied tables on their level, but none particularly close to theirs and a cursory glance assured him that those other tables were occupied by assassins as well.  He glanced over at Altaïr and smiled at the casual way his cousin was stealing pieces of lamb off of Kadija’s plate while she wasn’t looking.  
            Asad nudged an elbow against his ribs.  “She’s going to be _so mad_ when she catches him,” he muttered under his breath with a conspiratorial smile.  
            “Oh yeah,” Ezio agreed with a grin, leaning forward to serve himself from the chipped serving platter in the center of the table.  
            He suspected Altaïr had masterminded their seating arrangement – he and Kadija usually ate together, and of course he’d want Sirocco on his other side.  Cesare had claimed the seat next to Sirocco and Ezio had taken the seat beside him so that Asad wouldn’t have to.  He’d noticed that the medic wasn’t entirely comfortable around Cesare and Sirocco, not that Asad would ever say anything or be obvious about it, but Ezio could tell, and he really didn’t mind sitting next to Cesare in the slightest.  
            Ezio watched as Asad uneasily flicked his eyes towards the Maraas as they murmured together in their strange language with unsettlingly identical seraphim smiles, heads so close together they were nearly cheek to cheek.  
            “It’s fine,” Ezio assured him in an undertone.  “They’re probably just catching up, talking about family stuff.”  
            “Yeah, but it’s still a little creepy, right?” Asad replied, unsheathing his blade with a flick of his wrist and tapping it gently against his glass to refill it.  
            Ezio hitched his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, popped a piece of roasted lamb into his mouth and masticated thoughtfully.  
            Even though he had grown accustom to Cesare and Sirocco over the years, he understood Asad’s unease; simply put, the Maraas were uncanny – almost frighteningly attractive, they spoke with no discernible accents and radiated allure.  He could see their energy constantly swirling around their bodies like a cocoon of white fire if he used eagle vision, and he’d felt the effects first hand when a Maraas really turned it on; he’d been in the brothel a few times when Cesare had shown up hungry and the resulting bacchian orgies had been very memorable – or at least the parts he _could_ remember, the rest was a blurry haze of hunger and desire and an improbable tangle of bodies.  
            It didn’t help that when Cesare and Sirocco were together they were even more noticeably inhuman.  On their own, their human charades were excellent, wolves mimicking the sheep they hunted so perfectly that the occasional flash of fangs and throaty growl hardly merited a second look as their prey placidly grazed around them.  Together, however, they moved in tandem, unconsciously mirroring the other’s gestures and body language, drawing attention to how impossibly serpentine and fluid their movements were, the predatory hunger in their perfect smiles and the luminosity of their eyes.  
            “You thieving son-of-a-jackal!” Kadija suddenly swore.  “Stop. Taking. My. Food.”  She punctuated each word with a punch to Altaïr’s shoulder.  
            “It tastes better from your plate,” Altaïr protested, raising an arm to shield his face.  
            Ezio caught his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from laughing as Asad snorted into his tea.  
            “Peace, Kadija,” Sirocco admonished with a smile.  
            “Allahu akbar, Sirocco.  Why haven’t you taken him in hand and taught him some manners?” Kadija huffed, unsuccessfully trying to hide her own smile.  “I swear Altaïr, we should send you to bed early like a naughty child.”  
            Altaïr dropped his eyes to the table, feigning repentance.  
            “A most agreeable plan,” Sirocco concurred as she stroked the exposed nape of Altaïr’s neck.  
            “I should have guessed that you’d approve of any plan that involves sending Altaïr to bed,” Kadija replied drolly with a smirk and a suggestively arched brow.  
            Ezio joined in the round of good-natured laughter that followed Kadija’s quip.  His cheeks flamed at the sudden, unbidden memory of the many marks Sirocco had left on his cousin’s body and he quickly gulped down some hot tea to hide his blush.  
            Cesare, who occupied the seat to Ezio’s left, noticed.  “What’s got you blushing like a schoolgirl, assassin?” he murmured, almost under his breath, in Italian.  His smile was deceptively languid as he traced the rim of his teacup with the very tip of a single careful finger.  
            “Nothing,” he coughed self-consciously.  “Just the hot tea.”  
            Cesare hummed disbelievingly and leaned into Sirocco.  “If you say so…”  
            Ezio glanced up just as Altaïr flicked his eyes away.  
            “Enough, Kadija; you’re embarrassing Asad,” Altaïr scolded, leaning over to bump his shoulder into hers.  
            “Oh, you know I’d _hate_ to embarrass _Asad_ ,” Kadija smirked, serving herself another handful of meat.  She slitted a look at Altaïr and dropped a second handful on her plate.  “Leave some for me, alright?”  
            “Hey now, don’t drag me into this,” Asad protested with a laugh.  
            “Nobody dragged you anywhere, medico,” Ezio snorted.  “You jumped at the chance to come along tonight.”  
            Asad smiled and shrugged.  “If you knew what the other medics consider appropriate topics for dinner conversation you’d jump at the chance to eat somewhere else too.  Besides, how could I say no to going out with the two people most likely to become the next Al Mualim?”  
            “Al Mualim is as healthy as an ox-” Altaïr bristled.  
            Kadija drove an unsubtle elbow into his side leaned towards Asad with a hard smile.  “Unless you know something that we do not?”  
            Asad blinked slowly, carefully weighing his options.  
            “He _is_ getting older and he is blind,” Ezio quickly cut in.  “Besides, he’ll want lots of time to train his successor.”  
            “Yes, exactly so,” Asad quickly agreed with a relieved smile.  
            “Just out of curiosity, who do you think he’ll choose?” Ezio asked, pushing his plate forward to lean his elbows on the table.  “If anyone has a good idea, it’s you two.”  
            Altaïr and Kadija simultaneously pointed at each other.  
            “Him.”  
            “Her.”  
            Cesare and Sirocco were no longer even feigning interest in the assassins’ conversation as they scrutinized the waitstaff and dancers with intensely predatory gazes.  
            “I don’t want to be Al Mualim,” Altaïr insisted.  
            “Nobody _wants_ to be Al Mualim, Aquila,” Kadija replied dryly, pulling apart a piece of lamb.  
            “He’ll choose you,” Altaïr insisted.  “It’s better for the Order.”  
            Kadija sighed.  “Everyone knows I’m his second choice and if he does name me it will only be because he failed to bully you.”  
            “That’s not true,” Asad suddenly blurted out, brows furrowed in consternation.  “Altaïr may be a better killer, but it takes so much more than that to be Al Mualim.”  
            “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Kadija flatly informed him, flicking the clinging slivers of meat off her fingers and out from under her nails.  
            “I’ve gotten where I am purely on merit, thank you,” Asad sniffed defensively.  “I am an _excellent_ medic.”  
            “He is,” Altaïr agreed, lips curved almost in a smile as he leveled a look across the table at Ezio.  “Seems to have done a stand-up job of patching up E-zo and Cesare.”  
            Ezio hummed noncommittally.  “He’s _alright_ ,” he drawled, “but his bedside manner is _terrible_.”  
            “You’re only saying that because I don’t have breasts,” Asad retorted.  
            “I knew you were missing something,” Kadija teased.  
            Ezio distractedly half-listened to their conversation flowing around him as he watched one of the dancers watching him.  She was generically pretty, with sleek dark hair and gently rounded curves, but she had Cristina’s neck – long and graceful.  
            “Not bad,” Cesare murmured appreciatively, watching the dancer with heavy lidded eyes.  
            “She moves well,” Ezio replied awkwardly, dropping his eyes to his nearly empty tea.  He flicked his wrist to draw his blade and tapped it gently against the cup, wordlessly performing what Cristina had told him was a refilling charm.  She’d been so impressed that he could refill things nonverbally, even though he’d never been that great at it for an assassin; Malik had been _really_ good at that sort of thing.  Cristina had always wanted to know the outer limits of his abilities, had seemed to think there was a limited store of magic one could use and that was it, she’d never really understood when he tried to explain that the energy they channeled was infinite, in everything, everywhere.  It hurt to breathe, he missed her so much.  
            “You know,” Cesare leaned closer, grinning like Lucifer, “the best way to get over someone is to get _under_ someone else.”  
            Ezio huffed a disbelieving laugh.  “You’re going to make things better by buying me a woman?”  
            “Who said anything about buying?” Sirocco asked sweetly, selecting an apricot from the platter a flustered youth was setting on their table.  “She is not a whore; her body is not available for _money_.”  
            He heard a soft snap as Sirocco’s teeth pierced the apricot’s velvety skin.  Altaïr scowled when the boy lingered to admire the succubus and, upon meeting that furious gaze, the youth soon bid a hasty retreat.  Sirocco smirked at Cesare as she plucked the pit from the apricot before turning to feed sweet bites of the fruit to Altaïr.  Kadija sighed, rolled her eyes and leaned across the table to talk to Asad.  
            “I don’t need-” Ezio sputtered, feeling the blood drain from his face as Cesare caught the dancer’s eye and beckoned her over.  “Christ, don’t call her over-”  He quickly ducked his head to hide the furious blush sweeping across his cheeks as the girl glided up to their table.  
            “Yes, sir?” she lilted, her Arabic strangely accented.  
            “You are a toothsome little creature, aren’t you?” Cesare murmured, wrapping his fingers around her upper arm and drawing her closer.  “What is your name, girl?”  
            “Taline,” she breathed, lashes lowering as she fell under the incubus’ sway.  
            “Taline,” Cesare repeated with a blasé smile at Ezio.  “What a lovely name for a lovely girl, wouldn’t you agree, Ezio?”  
            “Yes,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably as Taline languidly rolled her head in his direction.  “Very lovely.”  
            With a sudden blur of movement Cesare had toppled the girl towards him; he caught her just in time to prevent a nasty collision with the table.  She smelled like musk and smoke and violets, her body warm and comfortingly heavy in his lap as she wound her arms around his neck and peered up at him with heavily kohled eyes.  Cesare leaned over and whispered something in the delicate shell of her ear, the words lilting, reminiscent of Taline’s accent, and Ezio wondered what other language she spoke.  
            “Come,” Taline encouraged with an eerily mechanical smile as she wiggled off his lap.  “Pay for your meal and come with me.”  
            He was pretty sure he knew what the invitation was for and his breath froze in his throat as he looked up at her, eyes drifting over the gentle curves of her hips to the swell of her pert breasts and further up, lingering over the delicate column of her throat.  She extended an impatient hand, shifting her weight so that he could see a flash of pale thigh though the high slit in her skirt.  Yes, he knew _exactly_ what the invitation was for.  _Fuck it, everyone’s entitled to a bit of good luck every now and again_.  He took her hand, allowed her to draw him from his seat and rummaged through his pockets for his coin.  
            “Cazzo,” he swore.  
            Altaïr looked up from kissing Sirocco’s fingers, head tilted inquisitively.  “What’s the matter, habibi?”  
            Ezio sighed.  “I haven’t exchanged currency yet; I’ve only got florins.”  
            “We’ve got this,” Kadija said, sliding her eyes up Taline.  “Go play with your poppet.  You can pay Altaïr and I back later.”  
            He hesitated, even though Taline was tugging impatiently at his arm, sliding an uncertain look to Altaïr, bracing himself for his cousin’s disapproving glare.  Altaïr, however, flashed him a quick smile as he toyed with Sirocco’s hands.  
            “Go on,” Kadija said in exasperation, shooing him with a dismissive flap of her hand.  
            “We should agree not to tell Aunt Maria I took you out whoring,” Altaïr commented with a smirk as he hauled Sirocco into his lap.  The succubus spared Ezio a quick smile before she turned and nipped Altaïr’s ear.  
            “You should totally tell her that because she’d never believe you,” Ezio retorted with a smile as he slid his arm around Taline’s narrow shoulders.  The girl hummed impatiently and pulled at his belt.  Asad grinned at him with a quick conspiratorial wink before he leaned forward to request a Qalyān from a passing server.  Ezio glanced over his shoulder with a small wave as Taline led him towards the door, but his companions were otherwise occupied and he noticed with an uneasy twinge that Cesare had vanished.


	11. Maria: further intel from Cesare

            There was someone in her room.  She tried to turn her head to better see them only to find that she couldn’t move.  Her heart hammered against the inside of her chest as the intruder approached.  
            “Maria,” he purred, sliding beneath the covers with her.  
            _Cesare_.  She wanted to scream, but her voice was frozen in her throat.  _Sleep paralysis_ , she realized, _textbook incubus attack_.  Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember the part of the lesson as to self-defense for this particular situation.  _Something about wiggling your toes?_  
            “Sweet, _sweet,_ Maria.  I almost prefer you like this,” Cesare murmured as he settled on top of her, his bare skin cold against hers.  “But you’d tell, wouldn’t you?  Why do you dislike me so?” he sighed as he parted her lips gently, tentatively; her breath quickened in terror at the feeling of one of his barbs scraping against her bottom lip.  Much to her surprise, he recoiled at that indication of her distress, slithering out of her bed to settle, just out of reach, on the windowsill, eyes eerily luminescent in the darkness.  
            The muscles in her arms and legs spasmed as he suddenly released his hold and she bolted upright, clutching the covers to her chest with one hand and groping for her hidden blades with the other.  
            “Peace, Maria,” he cooed.  “I have no intention of harm, unlike you.  What you did to me this morning was most unkind.”  
            “And nothing compared to what I want to do to you now, Cesare,” she hissed, still searching for her blades.  
            “If anyone else said that to me I’d be delighted,” he replied sardonically as he settled more comfortably on the windowsill.  “I moved those while you were sleeping, by the way.  Be a good girl and I’ll tell you what I’ve done with them.”  
            She twisted the blankets between her fingers, crumpling a handful in the ball of her fist.  “What do you want from me?”  
            “I should think that would be rather obvious to you by now.”  He slid from his perch and lit a lamp.  
            She swallowed uncomfortably and averted her eyes from the sight of his naked body; he noticed.  
            “Why do you dislike everything about me so much?” he asked softly.  “Why can’t you try to like me, even a little?”  He settled – uninvited – on the edge of her bed and tried to catch her eyes.  
            “Because you’re a monster,” she replied shrinking back from him against the headboard of her bed, covers clasped tightly to her chest.  
            “No more so than you,” he countered, gently prying the blankets from her grasp.  “I can make you want this, want me, you know.  It wouldn’t be that difficult, part of you wants this already.”  
            She crossed her arms protectively over her chest and squeezed her thighs together.  _I should have accepted that shirt from Ezio, god damn it_.  “Stay away from me, murderer.”  
            “Murderer?” he repeated in surprise.  “Murderer?  That’s really something, coming from you, especially since I’m certain you’ve killed far more people than I have in the last ten years.”  
            “But you admit that you’ve killed?” she pressed, drawing her knees up towards her chest.  
            “Only when I’ve had to,” he replied cautiously.  
            “And why did you have to kill Therese?”  
            His brow furrowed in confusion.  “Therese?”  
            “Have you killed so many you can’t remember her?” she bit out, seething at his continued confusion.  She sighed as she decided to try to jog his memory.  “I saw you feeding from her the week before she died.”  
            “Ah, yes,” he murmured in recognition before his expression became guarded once more, like how he had looked right before telling her about Cristina earlier that day.  It was an inauspicious omen.  “I didn’t kill her, Maria.  She committed suicide, a self-administered overdose of morphine.”  He watched her quick double blink of surprise without comment.  
            “I don’t believe you.  She was my friend; I would have known,” she blustered, ignoring the kernel of doubt blossoming in the back of her mind.  The events surrounding Therese’s death had been strange; it was sudden and yet no one had evidenced much surprise, the other girls had been oddly recalcitrant to discuss it in front of her and her mother had given a rather large donation to the church after a whispered argument with the priest.  
            Cesare cocked his head to an almost unnatural angle, lips parting slightly as he scrutinized her.  
            “How very sheltered you’ve been, my fiery darling,” he finally said with a bemused smile.  
            “I’m not your darling!” she snapped.  The urge to gouge her thumb into his wounded shoulder was nearly overwhelming.  
            “You were very young.  I’m sure your mother wanted to shield you from the ugliness of her business as much as possible,” he responded with a shrug of his attractively broad shoulders – not that she cared about the breadth of his shoulders in the slightest.  Not at all.  
            “I have hardly been shielded,” she sniffed, carefully adjusting one of the slip’s thin straps against her shoulder.  His eyes followed the movement, hooded, hungry.  
            “Maria, Therese developed a morphine habit after a few too many trips to back alley doctors, and then she picked up a few, unpalatable, diseases trying to pay for it.  Your mother was incredibly kind to let her stay, most madams would have thrown damaged goods like Therese out on the street, but she couldn’t let her keep working; no one wants to go to a brothel where the merchandise might give them something _extra_ ,” he explained carefully, tracing delicate swirls and whorls on her duvet with the very tips of his fingers.  
            “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.  
            “Why not?”  
            Her breath felt thick in her throat.  The simple truth was that she didn’t want to believe him, that his version fit more cleanly with the actual events she remembered – much better in fact, than the version she had carefully constructed over the years.  She didn’t want any of what he had told her to be true.  
            “Because Father Cammarieri says that demons are always compelled to lie,” she faltered, mentally kicking herself for how obvious and weak her reasoning sounded.  Cesare’s lips quirked as though he was trying to suppress a knowing smirk.  _God damn him._  
            “Write to your mother, tell her what I’ve told you and she will confirm it,” he replied, edging closer.  She was already pressed against the headboard; there was nowhere further to retreat.  
            “It wasn’t suicide; it must have been an accident,” she insisted, flinching when he brushed the pad of his thumb against her exposed knee.  
            “You’re probably right,” he agreed, watching her from beneath the fans of his lashes.  “It’s easy enough to do with morphine.”  
            “Why did you save my brother, Cesare?” she abruptly asked, holding the top of her slip in place with one hand while tugging it further down over her legs with the other.  
            Cesare leaned back, away from her – _thank god_ – frowning slightly as contemplated her question.  “I like him.  Ezio is…kind.  There’s an unselfish sweetness to him that I’ve seldom encountered; I didn’t want to see that extinguished.  And his death would cause your mother pain.  She has been good to me, to the Maraas; I would spare her further grief if it is within my power,” he said slowly, thoughtfully.  He looked slightly uncomfortable with his answer.  
            “Thank you, Cesare.  I’m sorry for the injury he caused you,” she said softly, gaze unwilling drawn to his bandaged shoulder.  
            “But not for the injury you inflicted?”  His eyes snapped to hers, expression indecipherable.  
            Her eyes narrowed.  “No.”  
            He chucked – low, throaty and positively indecent – as he grazed his thumbnail across the cushion of his lower lip.  “Does Ezio call you un’asina because you are so stubborn?”  
            “Sure,” she replied icily, tilting her chin so she could better look down her nose at him.  “Not that it’s any of your business.”  
            “Be sweet to me, Maria, just a little?” he cajoled, leaning towards her again, fingertips grazing her ankle.  “There is so much I can give you in return; the most immediate being pleasure without the consequences.”  
            She opened her mouth to retort but any response she might have made was lost in her squeak of alarm as he suddenly wrapped his fingers firmly around her ankle and yanked her towards him.  She twisted her hips and tried to kick him, but he was already between her thighs, hips pressed to hers as he pinned her wrists above her head and she was imminently grateful for the layers of her clothing between them.  She had to settle for driving the heel of her foot into the side of his lower back, in the general vicinity of his kidneys – presuming the Maraas’ internal physiology was similar to her own.  She childishly savored his pained grunt.  
            “Did your parents name you as a warning?” he asked, shifting his hips to pin her more securely to the bed, making her uncomfortably aware of how intimately he was positioned against her, how it would look to anyone who might walk in.  
            “It’s a family tradition,” she replied, trying to squirm away from him while maintaining a conversational tone.  “There’s been a Maria in every generation of our family for centuries.  What do you mean was I named as a warning?”  
            “Your name,” he murmured, nuzzling against the underside of her jaw, “it means bitter.  Will you taste bitter beneath my tongue, Maria?  I don’t think you will; you smell so sweet; so nectarous, like apricot blossoms and honey.”  He slowly ground his hips against hers as he nibbled along her collarbone.  She didn’t want to like how it felt.  
            “Stop it Cesare.  I don’t want this,” she said unsteadily, ashamed of how enthusiastically her body responded to his touch.  _That is his doing, his magic, neither your will nor desire_ , she reminded herself feverishly.  _I can make you want this, he had said._  
            “Don’t you, my bitterness, even if only a little?” he asked her, carefully tracing her nipple through the thin fabric of her slip.  
            “No,” she insisted as an anxious gurgle of terrified laughter bubbled up her throat.  
            Much to her surprise, for a second time that evening he recoiled at her signs of distress, slinking down to the foot of the bed to watch her with hungry eyes.  She took that opportunity to burrow beneath the covers, clutching the upper edges of her bedding protectively against her chest and took a deep, steadying breath.  _I should tell him to leave, before anyone knows that he was here_ , she thought reluctantly.  While the assassins held far more lax attitudes towards premarital sex than society in general, she didn’t think her family would be so accepting, and the gossip would be unbearable.  _But, then again, no one knows he’s here, what can it hurt?_  
            “What did you mean when you said you could give me _pleasure without the consequences_ , Cesare?” she asked cautiously.  
            He cocked his head and surveyed her thoughtfully, almost hopefully.  
            “We are immune to your illnesses, including venereal diseases, and our coupling will never produce children,” he replied crisply, clinically.  
            “Never?”  
            He shook his head emphatically.  “No, never.  Maraas lack the necessary, ah, _components_ , for sexual reproduction with your species.”  
            “ _All_ Maraas?” she asked quickly, too quickly.  
            His eyes narrowed.  “Ask Altaïr yourself.  I’m sure even _he_ realizes that he would have gotten Sirocco with child by now if it were possible.”  
            She would have given anything not to blush when she realized what he meant.  
            “And what’s that supposed to mean,” she snapped, surprised by how oddly protective she felt of Altaïr at Cesare’s implied slight.  
            “Just that I’m going to be kind and assume, after his jackal of a mother died, there wasn’t anyone around to have the basic facts of sex talk with him, ever,” Cesare smirked.  
            “He’s an amazing assassin, and, _of_ _course_ he knows about, that sort of thing,” she hedged defensively.  She felt badly she didn’t have a better comeback, but, frankly, Altaïr would have developed better social skills if he had been raised by actual wolves.  
            Cesare snorted in disbelief and edged closer, eyes sliding over her hungrily.  “And what about you, my bitterness?  Have you ever been interested in _that sort of thing_?”  
            “No.”  She edged away from him uncomfortably.  “And I’m not interested in it now.”  
            “You could be,” he suggested hopefully.  
            “Not with you,” she retorted with saccharine sweetness.  
            “Let me sleep with you tonight,” he cajoled.  “Just sleeping, nothing else,” he quickly added when she frowned.  
            “Don’t you have somewhere to sleep?” she asked irritably.  She crossed her arms across her chest and adjusted her grip on the covers.  
            “I don’t like to sleep alone.  I get cold,” he pouted, shifting his body closer to hers.  
            “So find someone who _wants_ to sleep with you,” she snapped as she pressed the blankets more firmly to her chest.  _I really should tell him to leave_ …  
            “But the only person _I_ want to sleep with tonight is you,” he purred with a languid smile.  
            She snorted before she could help herself.  “Was that supposed to be seductive?”  
            “I was going for honest.”  
            “You’re not very good at it.”  
            “You should be one to talk,” Cesare hummed innocently, cheeks dimpling as his lips parted in an angelic smile.  
            “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, eyes slitted and suspicious.  
            He swayed into her personal space, only stopping when they were nearly nose to nose, the movement fluid and carefully controlled, serpentine and predatory.  “Your pupils are dilated, your heart rate and breathing are elevated, and you’re flushed; in short, your body wants what I can give it,” he observed in an almost bored, clinically detached tone.  His eyes however, looked like liquid fire, fathomless and luminescent.  
            “What you’re describing is my body’s physiological response to a frightening and stressful situation, which would be the same regardless of who snuck into my room while I was sleeping, stole my blades and then menaced me.  I’m being pretty damn honest about that,” she hissed, scooting to the very edge of the bed as the incubus inserted himself beneath the covers next to her.  
            “And entirely dishonest about how aroused you are.  Don’t, don’t bother denying it, my bitterness, I can smell how wet you are.”  
            “That’s creepy.”  She aimed a hard knee at his groin as he inched closer.  She missed her mark and was only saved from an embarrassing tumble out of the bed by Cesare’s quick reflexes.  
            “Hardly.  Just observant,” he replied coolly as he settled her back onto the mattress with a smirk.  “Allow me to stay, sweet Maria.  I won’t take your _precious_ virginity until you ask.”  
            “That’ll never happen,” she snapped, trying to decide where she should bite him.  
            “Let me kiss you, I love the sweetness of your mouth,” he cooed, batting his eyelashes at her with flagrant provocation.  
            She slammed her forehead into his nose and he fell backwards, off the bed, with an injured squawk.  She laughed before she could stop herself at the sight of him sprawled on the floor.  He slowly sat up and cautiously swiped his hand across his nose; his expression hardened into something positively murderous at the sight of his own dark blood.  Her laughter froze in her throat and she scrambled out of bed towards the door.  
            He beat her to it; she hadn’t even seen him move – one moment he was sitting on the floor and the next he was standing in front of her with his back against the door glowering down at her.  
            “That was very unkind of you, my bitterness,” he seethed, eyes narrowing dangerously as he advanced towards her.  
            “You didn’t exactly leave me a lot of other options,” she snapped.  “Besides, you should go.  Someone will notice that you’re not where you’re supposed to be and I was expecting Ezio or Altaïr to drop by tonight; they won’t like it if they find you here.”  She was bluffing – she wasn’t expecting anyone that evening – but he couldn’t have known that and she prayed he didn’t call her bluff.  
            Cesare’s lips split in a smile fit for Lucifer, positively oozing damnation and hellfire.  “No one is going to be looking for either of us; they all went to the cabaret.  You would have been invited, but you went so far out of your way to avoid your brother and cousin they never got a chance to ask you along.”  
            “It’s getting late; I’m sure one or both of them will look in when they get back,” she replied, taking a careful step back from him and anxiously smoothing her slip.  _I’m letting Ezio buy me new bedclothes first thing tomorrow_ , she vowed with a shudder as Cesare unsubtly slid his eyes over her figure.  
            “Oh, I really don’t think so,” he purred, cocking his head with a predatory smile.  “ _Dear_ Altaïr is probably _begging_ Sirocco to take him to bed – if they’re not there already – and your darling, _sweet_ , brother met a lovely young lady who can’t keep her hands off him” – his smile stretched impossibly wide – “I made damn sure of that.”  
            Her stomach rolled with a staggering wave of nausea.  She didn’t want to admit that she was frightened by the way Cesare casually compelled people to serve his own ends, the way he played with people’s lives like pieces on a chessboard without any concern for the consequences.  He was a predator, he was in her room and he kept promising not to hurt her but she could sense his hunger.  The back of her legs hit the edge of the bed.  
            _I’m playing against him, not as piece on his board_ , she reminded herself.  
            “I’ll scream,” she whispered, curling her hands into fists, nails cutting into her palms.  “I’ll scream bloody-fucking-murder and-”  
            “Peace, Maria,” he interrupted her.  “There’s no need to make a scene” – his teeth flashed pearly-white in the moonlight from the open window – “and besides,” he added, a touch too quickly, “even supposing you did, no one would believe a thing you said.”  
            “Excuse me?” she rasped, furious and more than a little frightened.  
            “You really should be more careful of the things you say around incurable gossips.  It also probably wouldn’t hurt to be a bit nicer to Isra – she’s been a busy little bee telling anyone who will listen all about your _torrid_ affair with a Maraas.  I’m going to be _so_ disappointed if she’s not talking about me, you know,” he continued conversationally, plucking the strap of her slip off her shoulder.  
            “Isra’s harmless; no one ever listens to her,” she scoffed, yanking the strap back up.  She didn’t think that _he_ thought no one would believe her, and she knew he didn’t want the trouble.  Screaming would be breaking the rules of this game they were playing, at least she knew he’d take it that way, and the threat had given him pause.  _After all, he doesn’t want his fun spoiled_.  
            “Don’t be so sure about that, Maria; your family’s been prime gossip fodder lately.  I mean, there’s your brother and the whole ugly Cristina mess, Altaïr’s newly upgraded super-solider setting, and then there’s you: going to talk to a succubus about _contraception”_ – his lingering emphasis on that particular word set her teeth on edge – “and then having a very intimate, highly visible, fight right in the middle of the training grounds with a dashingly handsome man who also happens to be an incubus.  Well…” he shrugged with a smile like razor-wire.  “Of course people are going to take an interest in what Isra has to say, especially when it fits with everything else oh-so very well.”  
            Mari froze, palms sweating and mouth dry, as she realized that Cesare – and undoubtedly Sirocco as well – had been manipulating the situation to trap her like this.  
            “Why me?” she whispered.  “What’s so special about me that you’ve gone to so much trouble?”  
            Cesare nearly choked.  “You don’t really-” he snorted before being overcome with laughter.  Her stomach executed a particularly unpleasant rolling, wrenching, flop and he erupted with another burst of gurgling laughter at her expression.  
            “Don’t be ridiculous my bitterness – you’re hardly more than a footnote in our plans, a single moving part in our greater machinations,” he chortled, swiping his thumb along the curve of her cheek.  She flinched.  
            “Why did you save my brother, Cesare?” she asked, lips stiff and positively freezing with terror.  
            The incubus’ eyes narrowed as he quizzically tilted his head to the side.  “I already told you why I did that, Maria.”  
            “Is Ezio a part of your _machinations_ , too?” she asked, tone going for biting but falling short.  
            Cesare smirked and leaned in close, their noses almost touching, and she shivered as she stood her ground.  “You all are,” he told her in a stage whisper.  “And you should be grateful for it; otherwise your sad, short, little lives are utterly devoid of any lasting meaning or purpose, and that’s such a depressing thought now, isn’t it?”  
            She swallowed convulsively and her mind whorled as she studied the curves to the cupid’s bow of his lips.  
            “You’re using us to get something you want,” she said slowly.  
            “Obviously,” he drawled, flicking the strap of her slip off her shoulder.  
            “And it must be something you can’t get on your own,” she continued thoughtfully, more to herself than to him.  “Because otherwise you wouldn’t bother involving us.”  
            “What a clever theory,” Cesare cooed as he skimmed the strap off her other shoulder.  
            She crossed her arms across her breasts quickly as the slip slid alarming low and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.  Cesare could convalesce just as well in Roma, better, perhaps, because he’d have his pick of ready food sources nearby; he had to be staying around Alamūt because of something else, she reasoned.  
            “You don’t approve of Sirocco and Altaïr much either, do you?” she asked.  It was admittedly a clumsy and rather obvious opening gambit, but Cesare could get awfully chatty with just a little encouragement.  
            “She should know better than to get too attached to a _pet_ ,” Cesare retorted.  “It never ends well, not for anyone, especially not once one starts-”  He abruptly shut his mouth with a sharp snap of his teeth and slitted a wary look at her.  
            “Starts what, Cesare?” she pressed, heart thumping painfully against her ribs.  
            “You’re a clever girl, aren’t you, my bitterness?” he murmured, sliding his eyes along her curves.  “I might let you ferret more answers out of me, if I was to sleep in your bed tonight.”  He reached over, unfolded her arms and eased her slip down past her waist.  “I get even chattier when the person asking the questions provides incentive.”  
            “I really hadn’t imagined you were capable of making such an _inelegant_ proposition, Cesare,” she parried.  “It’s positively disappointing to learn I overestimated you.”  Her slip hung like a loose lasso around her ankles, just waiting for her to take a step to trip her up and she couldn’t tell if the incubus had actually let something slip or if he was baiting a lure.  She knew she wasn’t especially good at this sort of intrigue, that she was miles out of her league – they both knew that – but there was always the chance that he’d get too comfortable and say more than he meant to; Cesare _was_ a prideful cocky bastard.  
            “You’re being purposefully thick and I’m getting tired of your hostility and virginal theatrics,” he snapped, catching hold of her upper arms, thumbs pressed into the tender flesh.  “Are you going to play nicely on your own, or will I have to make you?  Answer me quickly darling, before I make the choice myself.”  
            She bit the inside of her cheek, positively furious at his threat.  “I’ll play nice,” she replied softly, tone unabashedly resentful.  He smiled; it was positively dazzling and the back of her throat burned with bile.  “But tonight’s activities are limited to talking and sleeping, no fucking or feeding-”  
            “Such language,” he hummed with a disapproving cluck of his tongue.  
            “And I want my blades back,” she added as she tried to twist her arms out of his grasp.  
            “So you can stab me?  I think not.  You’ll get them back when I deem it safe to do so, not a moment before.”  He tightened his grip and she clenched her teeth at the pain.  
            “That’s awfully untrusting of you,” she hummed as she leaned towards him and tried to ignore the way her skin crawled at his proximity.  
            “Hardly.  You’ve demonstrated an overwhelming propensity for attacking me, repeatedly.”  He leaned his head down and dipped the tip of his tongue into the divot between her clavicles; she squirmed, straining against his hold, as a strangled squeak clawed its way out of her throat.  “Be sweet, my bitterness,” he cooed, trailing kisses down her chest.  She felt his bottom lip split and the slimy slither of his barbs against her skin and she lunged away from him, twisting and fighting to break his grip on her.  
            “I mean it you bastard,” she hissed, clawing at every part of him she could reach, voice tight and high with panic.  “Keep your _appendages_ to yourself.”  
            “What a fuss you’re making over one tiny little taste,” he laughed, flinging her onto her bed like a rag doll.  She barely had time to roll onto her stomach, preparing to claw away from him across the bed, before he was on top of her – catching her wrists and nuzzling his face into the tightly curled coils of her hair – pinning her with his weight.  
            “Easy, Maria,” he breathed in her ear.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
            “You _are_ hurting me,” she choked out.  He was heavy – all solid muscle and velvet-wrapped-iron will – and frighteningly, inhumanly, strong; he handled her like she weighed nothing, overpowered her like she was limp and pliant and she realized with a dizzying bolt of clammy-cold terror how truly powerless she was to stop him from doing whatever he wanted with her, how wildly she’d overestimated her control over the situation.  “I can’t breathe.”  
            He shifted his weight off her.  “Is that better?” he asked, resting his cold cheek against the side of her neck, lips brushing the hinge of her jaw.  
            “Barely,” she snapped and tried to squirm away from him.  She froze with an embarrassed gasp at the feeling of him hardening against her as she squirmed.  
            “Tell me your desire, sweet, sweet Maria,” he purred, sliding a hand from her wrist along her arm and down her chest as he rolled his hips against hers.  
            “I _desire_ that you to keep your appendages to yourself,” she hissed, swatting at him.  
            “Don’t make me restrain you.”  
            “Talking and sleeping only, we agreed,” she reminded him, clumsily catching hold of his wrist as his hand slid lower.  
            “I agreed to no such thing,” Cesare replied, easily twisting his wrist out of her grip.  “You made that statement and I… didn’t contradict you.  Silence does not always indicate agreement, my bitterness.”  
            “I gave you my terms and you proceeded, which indicates consent to the terms I proposed,” she snapped.  
            He laughed, actually _laughed_ , face buried against her neck and she could feel his body shaking with it against hers.  
            “What, exactly, is so funny?” she snarled.  
            “You,” he chortled.  That you actually think that _you_ are in _any_ position to dictate terms to _me_.  It’s _hilarious_.”  
            She gritted her teeth.  “What are you really here for, Cesare?  It’s not me and it’s not because Alamūt is your idea of a good time, so why are you _actually_ here?”  
            “Selling yourself a bit short, aren’t you?” he drawled.  
            She flinched as he swiped his tongue along her jaw.  “You told me I was barely a footnote in your plans.”  
            “Maybe I lied.”  
            “And maybe you’re lying right now,” she sassed.  “It’s so hard to tell the difference between truth and lies with your kind isn’t it, Cesare?”  
            “Isn’t it just.”  His grip on her other wrist tightened brutally.  
            _I seem to have hit a nerve_.  She moistened her lips and steeled herself with a shaky breath.  
            “What’s the thing you want that requires us to get?”  
            “It’s not what _I_ want, my bitterness, it’s what _Sirocco_ wants,” he snapped.  “I’m just keeping an eye on things to make sure she doesn’t unleash Gēhannā in the process.  She’s been locked away so long who knows what she’ll do when she’s released; Siro knows she can’t be controlled but that hasn’t deterred her; you’d think she’d be more cautious, at least for the sake of her pet.”  
            _She?_   Maria had a sinking feeling the Maraas’ plans were more convoluted than she’d initially considered.  The word gehenna struck an uncomfortably familiar chord, but she couldn’t quite place it.  _Could be nothing, could be something serious, but how do I tell the difference?_  
            “By _pet_ you mean Altaïr,” she confirmed, throat tight with fury.  He might not be the easiest person she’d ever had to get along with, but Altaïr was family and that meant something to her, even if no one else seemed to get it.  
            “No, I meant the _other_ toy poodle, the one she keeps on a gold chain and feeds caviar,” Cesare snarked.  
            “Don’t think I’ve seen that one,” she replied breezily, mentally patting herself on the back for getting Cesare’s talking.  _Hopefully he starts spilling what I actually want to know soon_.  
            “That’s because it died.”  
            He nipped his teeth along her shoulder and she squirmed, skin crawling with revulsion and no small amount of unease at the incubus’ casual tone.  
            “She gets so _sad_ when they’re gone, which is probably why she’s making extra sure that won’t happen with the current favorite,” he added absently, the sharp points of his fingers digging into her hip.  
            _The current favorite being Altaïr._   Her throat felt anxious-tight and her heart hammered against the bars of her ribcage, distracting her from the slithery feeling of Cesare’s hand sliding downward.  _She’s doing something to him_ , she suddenly realized and wondered how she hadn’t seen it before: Altaïr had been moodier since she got back from her last contract – more jealous, aggressive – reflexes sharper and with more stamina than usual, even for him.  
            “I can almost see the appeal,” Cesare continued conversationally.  “You really are quite amusing, I should miss our little chats terribly when you’re gone.”  His fingers were cold against her skin.  
            She sucked a quick, deep breath and tried to kick out of his hold.  He hissed in annoyance and forced his knee between her thighs, hooking his leg around one of hers and then pulling it straight while pressing her into the mattress.  
            “Now, now, my bitterness, you promised to play nice,” he cooed mockingly in her ear, tone saccharine sweet and chilling.  
            “Wasn’t I?” she hummed with a grimace as he stretched her body tighter and her muscles spasmed in protest.  
            “Not nearly nice enough, but I can fix that, make you desperate for what I can give you” he told her pleasantly as he flipped her over onto her back and pinned her body beneath his.  “I think a little taste is all it would take.”  
            “Cesare…” she groaned, turning her face away from his as everything went hazy.  He nudged her jaw open, tongue sliding between her teeth, his barbs scraping against her lower lip, her soft pallet.  She tried to scream but it came out as a moan and her lashes felt impossibly heavy as her skin tingled beneath his fingers, the sensation like a string of fireworks being set off along her nerves.  
            “Peace, my sweet Maria,” he murmured against her lips.  “Let me hold you while you sleep; I’ve been so very cold.”  
            The heat of his kisses was spilling down her throat, filling her with a warm, heavy, glowing feeling and the final strands of consciousness she’d been clinging to so tightly slipped between her fingers and drifted away.


	12. Ezio: cabaret (2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where my referenced RIA (Rape Incest Abuse) tag comes in. It is re events in Taline's past, and not currently happening in text, but please read with care  
> RAINN.org is a really excellent resource if you or someone you know might need help (US based)

            Taline wasted no time bringing him to her room.  He barely had a chance to look around before she was shoving him back onto her bed, teeth bared and cheeks flushed, chest heaving as she stripped off her clothing.  He was fine believing she was attracted to him and that the presence of two hungry Maraas had lowered her inhibitions in the cabaret, but this, this was way above and beyond that level and while part of him – the part due south of his belt, to be precise – was kind of okay not questioning it too closely, the rest of him couldn’t ignore the gnawing kernel of doubt as to the agency behind her overwhelming attraction to him.  
            “Taline,” he murmured soothingly, catching hold of her wrists are she reached for the waistband of his trousers.  “Look at me, come lay on the bed beside me and just let me look at you for a moment.”  
            He pulled her towards himself, tipping her out of his lap so that she landed on her back beside him on the bed.  Gently he smoothed her tousled hair back from her face.  Her eyes were wide, glassy and unfocused, the pupils blown so wide her eyes appeared black.  He’d seen eyes like that before, in the men and women Cesare compelled.  He sighed and kissed her cheek; she arched her back with an inarticulate murmur and eagerly turned towards him.  
            _Damn it._  
            A whimper escaped her throat as he made to get up.  “Don’t go.”  
            He bit his lip while he contemplated his options.  If he left now he had a good chance of catching the others before they left the cabaret, Asad would rib him about being a minute man for weeks, probably longer, but he’d have company on the long walk back.  However, if he was honest with himself, what he really wanted was to stay, to sleep in a woman’s arms and feel her warm body beneath his.  Taline was clawing open his shirt and stroking his chest, urging him closer.  
            “I should go,” he protested trying to remove her grasping hands.  “I think you’ve been drugged and I don’t want anything to happen that you might later regret.”  He turned his head to the side, trying to avoid her hot, hungry kisses.  
            “I’m not drugged,” she protested.  “I feel fine, better than fine, actually.  I feel amazing.  Feel amazing with me.”  She twisted fistfuls of his shirt in her hands; grip so tight that there was no way to get away from her without a serious struggle.  This was not what he had in mind for this evening – he had planned to watch some pretty girls dance and force himself to smile and laugh at his companions’ jokes and act like everything was fine, fine, fine, that nothing hurt and he wasn’t alone, rejected and unwanted.  
            “I’d love to, truly,” he groaned, feeling like an asshole for even considering it.  “But I really should go.”  He stroked the insides of her wrists until her grip on his shirt loosened and then carefully eased the crumpled fabric out of her hands as he stood and turned to leave.  
            Taline sat up and shook her head, dark hair tumbling down over her breasts.  “Stay with me, Ezio Auditore.”  
            He froze, breath lodged in his throat and heartbeat echoing loudly in his ears, before he turned and shot a hard, searching look at her.  She was a mere slip of a girl – her body lithe and lean, well-toned from years of dancing – with dark, shadowy eyes and even darker hair.  
            “How did you-”  He swallowed the rest of the question and took a deep breath before continuing, forcing his tone even and calm, despite the frenetic pounding of his heart and the sudden, tightly-coiled tension of his muscles and his instincts burning at the hint of danger.  
            “I don’t believe that I told you my name.”  
            Her brows momentarily quirked in confusion before smoothing again with a sigh.  “The man told me,” she breathed, leaning forward and hooking her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, lips parted invitingly.  
            “What man?” he asked, smoothing his shirt; most of the buttons were now missing.  _Cazzo._   Alamūt was bitterly cold at night and he wasn’t looking forward to walking back to the fortress with his shirt gaping wide open, nothing but the lightweight undershirt he wore beneath it between his skin and the thin, icy air of the mountains.  
            “The Man,” she repeated slowly with careful emphasis, a sharp crease appearing between her brows as she struggled to string a description together.  “The one with eyes like the Garden and the lightbearer’s smile; he had a halo of white fire.”  
            _Cesare, of course_.  He rubbed a hand across his face distractedly before the significance of the words she had chosen fully sank in.  _The Garden…the lightbearer…Oh Shit_.  She wasn’t a muggle, or a squib, or a witch dependent on a wand; she was a Cathar.  He hated engaging Cathari; their use of primal magic meant that one had to knock them out cold to incapacitate them, and he really, _really_ didn’t want to tangle with one hopped up on a Maraas’ compulsion.  _God-fucking-damn-it Cesare_.  
            “I want you,” she murmured, fumbling with the top button of his trousers.  “Be with me.”  
            “I can’t, I have to go,” he told her, carefully removing her hands from his clothing.  
            “Are you _rejecting_ me?” she demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously.  
            “No, no.  Not exactly,” he hedged, reaching up to brush the pad of his thumb across the crest of her cheek.  Her eyes drifted shut as she turned to press her cheek against his hand, humming with pleasure at the touch.  “Taline, I really do have to go.  I’ll come see you again soon, okay?”  
            “Stay.”  He heard the magic bleeding through her voice, the pitch dropping towards something almost subsonic with hints of grinding metal, and her eyes snapped open, black as oblivion.  
            His guilt over stabbing Cesare vaporized as the air pressure around them dropped so suddenly his ears popped.  _Jesus-Fucking-Christ, I’m screwed_ , he thought, mentally running through different scenarios, all of which ended with some variation of the Order’s members no longer being welcome at the cabaret, his complete and total disgrace and possible expulsion from the Order itself and/or him maybe being a rapist and then dying a slow, horrible death at the hands of a woman named Maria because of it.  _What the ever-loving fuck did I do to deserve this?  We are so even, Cesare._   _Actually, I might need to stab you once or twice more._  
            “Okay, okay, just for a little while,” he soothed and gingerly perched on the edge of the bed.  
            Taline immediately straddled his lap and snuggled against him, her body warm and comfortingly solid against his.  He slid his arms around her when she squirmed closer and grew breathy, trailing sloppy kisses over his throat and along his jaw; he felt guilty for how much he liked the way she felt.  
            “Lay bricks with me,” she demanded between kisses as she shoved his shirt down his shoulders.  
            “I can’t.”  He adjusted her weight off of a sensitive spot in his lap.  “I’m sorry.”  
            “Why not?”  
            “I, um,” – _because I can’t live with the thought of you regretting me when the compulsion wears off_ – “I’m saving myself for marriage.”  
            She looked at him incredulously, eyebrows arched and eyes slightly narrowed.  He cleared his throat and then rubbed his thumb against her thigh as the silence stretched.  She sighed and reached up, sinking her fingers through his hair to trace her nails in circles against his scalp.  It felt good – amazingly good – relaxing and refreshingly non-sexual.  He leaned his head down towards hers, close enough their noses were almost touching and he could see that the kohl around her eyes was cracking and starting to flake off.  
            “Legilimens.”  
            He was caught totally unprepared and she slithered around his hastily erected defenses.  He could feel her moving under his skin, rifling through his memories, flashes of skin and sex and then Cristina, Cristina, Cristina, and it felt like free falling.

Cristina in the hot summer sun, laughing hazel eyes and lightweight calico sliding up her thighs – _I love you, love you_ – frost on the window, the smell of fresh coffee, Cristina behind him, arms around his waist – _want us to be together forever_ – _let’s talk about this later, okay Ezio?_ – box of sodium bicarbonate on the bathroom counter and a new fullness to her breasts – _it’s a beautiful ring, nipote, she’ll love it_ – shock and pain and betrayal – _monster, murderer, not enough, never enough_ –sickly sweet taste of white Sambuca on his tongue, not enough to drown the pain, not enough, never enough…

            He couldn’t breathe.  He stood abruptly, tumbling Taline from his lap.  The sound of her body landing on the floor seemed so far away and he didn’t want to hurt her but his lungs were collapsing and his heart was imploding and he just _couldn’t breathe_.  
            “Ezio?”  Her voice was muffled and distant, like he was underwater, echoing, warped, and the pressure of it was suffocating him.  
            Suddenly she was touching his face, hands warm and gentle; he was on the floor and he didn’t understand why his face felt cold and darkness was dappling his vision and he still _couldn’t breathe_.  
            “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Taline murmured, soft cheek pressed against his and her breath warm against his ear.  “Focus on my breathing, okay?  Just breathe with me.  It’ll be okay.  Breathe.”  
            He tried, did his best to match her rhythm – inhale, exhale, repeat – and slowly, slowly, the pressure in his chest loosened and he realized how tightly he was gripping her, his fingerprints already darkening to bruises on her almond-pale skin.  
            “Oh, god, I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m so, so sorry,” he babbled, trying to pull away but she tightened her grip and held him closer.  “I should, I need to, I’m so sorry.”  
            “Stay,” she demanded softly.  Her eyes were still blown-pupil-black, but her gaze was sharper, more focused.  
            He rolled his bottom lip against his tongue.  “Why?”  
            Her eyes slid down to his mouth.  “Because neither of us wants to be alone,” she whispered.  
            She was right; he didn’t want to be alone.  He wanted to stay, to sleep in her arms and feel her body warm against his in the cold hours of the night, to pretend he wasn’t alone, rejected and unwanted.  He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and watched her eyes hungrily follow the motion.  
            “If I stay,” he said slowly, cautiously.  “I’m keeping my pants on.”  
            “So long as you _stay_.”  
            Her eyes met his and the silence stretched.  After watching her watch him a long moment he finished taking off his shirt.  Taline reached over and touched his shoulder, rolling the palm of her hand over the swell of his deltoid before easing his undershirt off over his head.  He pulled her closer, until he could feel the sharp points of her nipples brushing against his chest and she reached up to cradle his jaw, guiding his lips to hers for a series of slow, gentle kisses before sliding down to remove his časbak while he unfastened his trousers and allowed her to slide them off his legs.  She left his zir-šalvar untouched and he was ashamed of how disappointed he felt.  
            “Taline-”  
            “Hush,” she whispered, grazing his lips with her fingertips.  He was struck by how tiny she was as she crawled into his lap.  
            He sighed and gathered her in his arms and staggered to his feet.  She clung to him tightly, breath fanning warmly against the hollow of his throat as he carried her.  She slithered out of his arms when he reached the bed, burrowed underneath the covers and held her arms out to him.  
            He hesitated, suddenly feeling awkward and shy.  “Do you, maybe, want to put something on first?” he asked, trying not to stare at the smooth lines of her naked body.  He wanted to do positively indecent things with her, intimate things, things that would make her blush, and moan, and beg for more; he wanted to hear her crying out his name, the names of her gods, while he was inside her.  He blushed and studied the handmade quilt on her bed; it looked soft, its colors faded from years of washing.  
            “No.”  She reached for him, fingers brushing against his, hesitantly pressing into the damp palm of his hand as she tugged him towards her.  “Come lie with me, assassin.”  
            Of course she knew he was an assassin, if she hadn’t known before it had to be painfully obvious now; he was naked except for his small clothes and the blades strapped to his forearms.  
            “Are you sure?  I mean, won’t you get cold?” he asked, stalling and anxious, and really, _really_ , loathing his treacherous body for its obvious and enthusiastic response to the situation.  _Down boy, bad Ezione_.  
            “Not with you to keep me warm.”  
            She tugged his hand again, harder, and he slid under the covers beside her.  She extinguished the lights with a distracted waive of her hand and immediately cuddled against his chest, humming low in her throat with appreciation as she molded her body against his.  He slid an arm around her, urging her lips up to his.  _Just a few kisses_ , he told himself, _then I’ll stop.  All I need is a few kisses_.  
            Her mouth tasted like star anise and rosewater and lime and he felt a familiar sweet ache in his loins as he kissed her deeper and deeper still.  He broke their kiss to catch his breath, rolling over onto his back while his lungs worked like bellows, frantically drawing in precious oxygen, trying to slow down before things got out of hand.  Taline followed, straddling his waist and recapturing his mouth with hot, urgent kisses.  His hands slid down her body, mapping her soft curves and her hips lifted to meet his searching hands.  She jolted, body suddenly tensing, when his fingers brushed her entrance; he stopped and lifted his hands from her skin.  
            “Everything okay?” he asked softly.  
            “Y-yes,” she shakily replied as she rubbed against him, and he knew she was lying.  
            He hesitated, trying to decide what he should do.  “It’s okay,” he assured her as he drew his blade.  He concentrated for a moment and the blade glowed with watery-pale blue light.  “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured soothingly as he brought the blade up so that the light illuminated her face.  Her eyes were wide and black, pupils still blown wide; she winced at the light but her pupils didn’t contract.  _Damn it.  Cesare really dosed her_.  He retracted his blade and she sighed with relief at the return to darkness.  
            “Let’s slow down a bit,” he suggested, turning onto his side and settling her beside him, back pressed to his chest.  She snuggled back into him, pillowing her cheek against his bicep and drawing her knees up slightly.  He was struck, again, by how small she was, by how easily he could wrap his body around hers; it made him feel oversized and boorish, but also, surprisingly, protective, possessive.  
            “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, and she sounded so hesitant and _young_ he felt positively monstrous – a lecherous, slavering beast whose hands were drenched with so much blood they could never be washed clean again.  
            “No, not at all, bellissima,” he murmured, sliding his other arm around her and nuzzling his cheek against her neck.  He felt her body tense again as he stroked the backs of his fingers down her stomach and a sudden chill slid along the notches of his spine.  _No, surely not.  Not even Cesare would be that callous._  
            “Taline,” he murmured hesitantly, pausing to run his tongue along the familiar ridges of his bottom teeth.  _Stop being such a coward, you have to ask this_ , he told himself sternly and took a steadying breath.  “You have” – he cleared his throat uncomfortably – “been _known_ , by a man, before this evening, correct?  Sexually, I mean,” he clarified slowly as his stomach dropped at the way her body suddenly went absolutely still.  
            “I am not a _virgin_ , if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied.  
            He should have been relieved, but he could hear that something was very, very wrong in her voice, something worse she wasn’t saying.  He didn’t want to know and it wasn’t his place to ask, but it was his fault she was naked in his arms, twitchy and aching from an incubus’ compulsion, and he had an obligation to minimize the damage she suffered because of him.  
            “I don’t want you to come to any harm because of me.  If my being here puts you in danger, please tell me,” he told her, tone carefully gentle and soothing in spite of the fresh wave of intense self-loathing he felt at how aroused he was by her vulnerability.  _Mio dio, this is the sin that sends me straight to hell with all the other monsters_.  
            “It-”  She pulled his arm more tightly against herself, which he liked way more than he should – _bad, bad Ezione_ – and hid her face in his hand.  “He was my father’s youngest brother.  It started when I was twelve,” she said, voice flat and muffled against his hand.  
            His stomach roiled with sudden nausea.  “It _started_?”  
            He felt her nod.  “I ran away when I was sixteen.  It wasn’t fair to my father, having to support a daughter who is nothing but damaged goods, worthless and despoiled.”  
            His blood was boiling with rage in his veins, pure and white hot.  “Who told you those things?” he demanded, tone harsher than he meant it to sound.  
            “No one had to tell me, it was understood,” she whispered.  
            “Where were your parents when this was happening?” he growled.  
            She flinched at the anger in his voice.  “They didn’t believe me,” she breathed so softly he could hardly hear her response, her entire body trembling violently.  
            He pressed the length of her body against him, his breathing harsh and jagged against her neck.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry, if the demon on his shoulder had ever sung so sweetly for blood.  
            “Light the lamps,” he commanded softly.  
            “No.  I’m too ashamed for you to look at me.”  She was crying, small painful sounds like a kitten being drown and he felt the beautifully cold weightlessness of purpose, of meaning, a feeling he had started to fear Cristina had killed when she shattered his world.  He sat up and eased Taline onto her back, bracing his hands so that he loomed over her, his body forming a canopy, a cage, around her.  
            “Light the lamps, Taline,” he commanded again.  “I want you to see my face when I tell you this.”  
            He heard her whimper just before the lamps lit.  She was still crying when he leaned over and brushed his lips gently against hers, teasing her mouth open to slip his tongue between her teeth.  She stilled, fingers curling against his chest, passive beneath him.  He broke their kiss with a sigh to study the contours of her face.  She had gone quiet, watching him study her as tears silently slid from her eyes.  Ezio took a deep breath and summoned up what he knew he needed to say, what his mother would have told him if she ever heard him say otherwise; what he knew because of every strong woman he had known, and what he had to admit was true no matter what impulses reared their ugly heads.  
            “A woman’s virginity is not something that can be taken by force, it can only be willingly given.  It’s still yours to give, Taline, it’s always been yours; nothing that has happened to you has taken it away without your consent,” he told her softly, lowering his body over hers.  She sighed and arched her shivering body up towards him.  “I am a Master assassin,” he murmured in her ear as she clung to him.  “My life has no purpose but to end the lives of others.  Write me a list, bellissima.  Put the name of that man on the top and your parents’ below his, and the names of all the others who knew and did nothing to protect you below theirs.”  
            “I have no money to pay you,” she whispered, burying her face against his neck.  
            “I’m not killing them for your money; I’m killing them for _you_.”  _Sweet Jesus-son-of-god_ , he wanted her, like, _really_ wanted her – in a more than a one night stand sort of way.  “If you wish it, if it would bring you any peace at all, I will bring you that man’s heart in a box,” he murmured as he settled his weight beside her, pressing her hips to his.  “You are not worthless and despoiled, _I_ want you; however long a list you give me, I will end every life on it to have you.  Allow me, please, allow me a taste,” he coaxed, nudging her thighs apart.  She whimpered, but allowed him, body tensing as his fingers penetrated her.  He barely dipped his fingers inside her, touch gentle and unhurried, before bringing his fingertips to his lips and sucking them clean of her juices.  She squirmed against him in embarrassment.  “I love the way you taste, bellissima, precious and pure,” he told her, enjoying the heat of her cheek against his skin as he cuddled her closer.  He wanted to plunge his fingers inside her again, knowing she’d come quick and hard for him because of Cesare’s compulsion, to tease orgasm after orgasm out of her until she was utterly spent and deliciously tender before sheathing himself inside her.  He tipped her chin back and kissed her gently, shivering at the thought of her plush lips and silky tongue against his cock; it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman.  
            “They were my family,” she protested weakly.  He felt her fingers brush against him through the thin fabric of his zir-šalvar, tracing his shape, learning the size of him, and he wanted to put her hands inside his clothes, teach her how and where to touch him.  
            “They lost the right to that claim when they failed to protect you,” he muttered, pressing her hips against him.  His anger flared again at the thought of a parent refusing to protect their child and then shaming that child for the very harm they failed to prevent.  No one deserved to be treated like that.  He wanted to erase the ugliness and pain from her past; he wanted to do what he did best.  
            “They abandoned you, Taline; I will purge your false family and give you my name, make you part of a family that will love and protect you.”  
            “I don’t understand,” she moaned as he kissed her breasts.  
            “Yes, you do.”  
            “We hardly know each other,” she protested, straddling his hips.  
            He exhaled slowly, tracing a calloused fingertip along the curve of her breast.  “I could die on my next contract; I want a woman to come home to, to look after, a wife to warm my bed and bear my children.  Does that sound like something you could want?  A life you could desire?”  A single tear slid down her cheek; he reached up and gently brushed it away.  “I’m not cruel,” he promised her.  “I won’t beat or rape you, and if something happens to me, my family will look after you.”  
            “Don’t you want to know more about me?” she asked shyly, tucking her hair behind her ears.  “I imagine many women want you, but no men have ever wanted me, not since…” she bit her lip and looked away.  He sat up slowly, hand pressed to her lower back to steady her while he moved.  
            “I know you are smart and strong and resourceful.  I know that you are kind and powerful.”  He tilted her head back and gently kissed her eyelids.  “There are no finer qualities I could hope for in a wife.”  
            “You don’t want someone to love you?” she asked, her voice quavering.  
            _She’s brave_ , he noted with approval.  _Unafraid to ask hard questions and refrain from making easy, empty promises_.  
            “Are you saying that you can’t, or won’t, come to love me?” he asked slowly.  Of course he wanted to be loved, but he was also wary of it.  
            “I’m not sure I know how to love, anymore,” she replied softly.  “It’s been so long since I knew what it feels like.”  
            “Maybe we could relearn how to love together?” he suggested.  
            “We could do that,” she agreed with a shy smile.  
            Her eyes, he noticed, were a beautiful shade of green amber. 


	13. Ezio: hunting trip (1/5)

            Ezio stood just outside the doors to Al Mualim’s receiving chamber and exhaled slowly, eyes drifting almost shut.  His robes felt crisp and clean against his skin, scented delicately of hyssop.  _Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow_.  Ezio smoothed the ash-white folds of his robes.  He wondered why the assassins at Alamūt had chosen hyssop; in Italy they used rosemary and he missed the scent of it.  Al Mualim was not alone, he could hear several different voices rising and falling in conversational cadence.  _He must be meeting with the Masters_.  Ezio realized with a pang of guilt that they would be reporting on their pupils and dividing the work of mentoring so many rising fidā'ī, work he should be helping them shoulder.  His hand hovered over the door and he reflected over the morning’s events that had led to where he found himself standing.  


            He’d gotten up shortly before sunrise to return to Alamūt, slipping out of Taline’s arms while she slept.  He’d left her a note, explaining that he had to make arrangements but that he’d be back for her later that morning.  He’d gone straight to the lawyers and requested a marriage contract.  Avtandil Undiladze, who’d forged his blades at the same time as Ezio, had arched a single brow at the request, somehow managing to be both incredulous and condescending without having to utter a single word; it was a skill he’d spent his life honing, and it provoked an unwelcome rush of doubt that Ezio irritably shook off.  
            “Don’t give me that look, Avto,” he snapped.  “Draft something quick; I promised to come back for her this morning.”  
            Avto sighed as he reached for a fresh sheaf of parchment and a pot of ink.  “You’ve made up with her already?  I thought you just broke up?”  
            “This is someone else,” Ezio hissed through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw was starting to ache.  _Jesus Christ, does anyone not know about the Cristina thing_?  Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised at how fast gossip spread within the Order anymore.  Just the thought of her – “ _the Cristina thing_ ” – made him irritable; he was tired of people bringing her up.  
            There was a long, very judgmental, pause while the lawyer adjusted his glasses.  “Italians are such an _impassioned_ people,” he sniffed.  “Names and consideration,” he continued dryly at Ezio’s warning look.  
            “Her name is Taline, you already know mine, and really, consideration for a _marriage_ contract?” he snapped, like saying her name was a way to prove something.  
            Avto sighed again, thoroughly enjoying Ezio’s ignorance.  “ _Of course_.  Most families want assurance of provision when they marry one of their children off to an assassin; the fidā'ī aren’t especially known for dying of old age, as I’m sure you are aware.”  
            “Oh.”  Ezio slid his eyes over the smooth surface of Avto’s desk and shifted his weight uncomfortably.  He decided to cut to the heart of it.  “I doubt that’s going to be an issue, since I’ve already promised to kill most of her family.”  
            “I see.”  Avto tapped a long, ink-stained index finger against the parchment.  “Will that be going in the contract, effendi?”  
            “Maybe?”  Part of him, conditioned from years of being around Cristina, recognized how chilling their conversation would seem to an outsider, how terrifyingly casual they were about killing and death; just business as usual.  He wondered briefly how Taline would feel about being surrounded by Assassins, if she would be as frightened as Cristina had been; he hoped not.  
            Avto hummed and jotted a quick note to himself on a piece of scratch parchment.  “And the young lady’s family name?”  
            “Can’t you just start drafting the contract and we’ll fill in the details later?  I’ve got to sort out the living arrangements with the majordomo before I collect Taline.”  He set a stack of florins on the edge of the table when Avto opened his mouth to protest.  “I’ll owe you one,” he added over his shoulder as he strode from the room.  
            The majordomo was far more obliging.  Of course they’d have to stay in the guest quarters – since he was _technically_ stationed in Roma and Taline wasn’t part of the Order and therefore not allowed in the main complex unattended – which, while inconvenient, was not unexpected.  He confirmed the apartment and left orders with the elves for his belongings to be moved and the rooms made ready; he planned to return with his new wife shortly.  The elves were delighted at the information – they were always excited for births and marriages – and salaamed deeply as he left.  
            His next stop was the stables.  He felt a twinge of guilt for not telling Altaïr what he was planning to do as he saddled a bay gelding, which he willfully and quickly squelched.  _Easier to ask forgiveness than permission_ , he reasoned, mounting the horse and urging him into an easy canter.  The ride took just long enough for him to wonder what he’d do if she had changed her mind.  


            Taline opened the door almost as soon as his fist touched the wood and eagerly motioned him inside.  His eyes immediately fell on a rather small, very battered, suitcase sitting in the middle of the floor and he smiled with relief as the door clicked shut behind him; she hadn’t changed her mind.  
            He turned towards her, still smiling, as she nervously approached him.  She was wearing heels and a fitted day dress made of pale gray cotton printed with small bunches of bright red flowers; her legs were bare.  She wasn’t wearing any makeup and her hair was pulled back from her face with two simple combs; she looked incredibly, unsettlingly, young.  
            “Good morning, bellissima,” he murmured leaning down to kiss her.  She tensed as his lips neared hers; he noticed and kissed her cheek instead.  
            “Good morning, vartapet,” she replied, avoiding his eyes as a faint blush heated her cheeks.  
            He watched her fidget for a minute, lips still curved in a slight smile, before he strode the few steps over to the bed and sat down.  
            “Come here,” he murmured as he reached for her.  She hesitated a scant moment before venturing to take his hand.  He pulled her into his lap and traced gentle fingers over the curve of her cheek and delicate bones of her face.  _Sweet-mother-of-god_ , he loved how she felt; he wanted to slide a hand up under her modest little dress and tease her until her lashes grew heavy and her cheeks were flushed, until she squirmed and spread her thighs in innocent invitation.  _Down boy, bad Ezione_ , he chastised himself.  Something about her just triggered all of his baser instincts at once; not simply desire, he also felt possessive and protective.  
            “How old are you, Taline?” he asked, lips brushing against hers, the fingers of one hand unobtrusively curling around her wrist, taking her pulse.  
            “Twenty-two,” she shakily replied, cradling his jaw with her free hand.  “How old are you?”  Her heartbeat pounded against his fingertips; he could feel her lips part against his as she squirmed on his lap.  
            “Twenty-six.”  He gently nipped at the cushion of her lower lip.  “Careful, bellissima, you’re dangerously close to a sensitive spot.”  
            “What does _bellissima_ mean?  Why do you call me that?” she asked, fingers sliding from his jaw to grip the back of his neck.  She pressed her thighs together when she felt him lift the hem of her dress.  
            He tipped her backwards out of his lap and on to the bed, hand sliding up the backs of her clenched thighs as he settled his weight over her.  
            “It means very beautiful, gorgeous,” he told her, watching her squirm against his exploring fingers from beneath his lashes.  “We have some time; the marriage contract is being drafted,” he murmured, nuzzling against her neck.  “Let me teach you about pleasure while we wait?  Open for me, like a good mogliettina.”  
            She hid her face against his shoulder as she spread her legs.  He traced his fingertips over her gently, noting with satisfaction, and bolt of lust that settled heavily in his groin, that her underwear was already clinging to her, damp from the moisture of her body.  
            “Oh bellissima,” he breathed against her ear, resisting the urge to take her right then and there.  She whimpered and he snatched his hands away from her body.  “Taline?”  
            “I’m sorry,” she said shakily, voice muffled against his shoulder.  “I’m trying-”  
            “No, no, it’s okay, you’ve done nothing wrong.  I’m sorry,” he interrupted her quickly, easing her face away from his shoulder to look in her eyes.  “I’m being selfish and boorish, and I’m very, very sorry.  Do you want me to stop?”  
            “I,” she hesitated, moistening her lips with a quick swipe of her tongue.  “I…”  
            “Let’s start over with something you’re comfortable with,” he suggested gently, stroking her cheek.  “Do you like it when I kiss you?”  
            She nodded, fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt as she watched him with wide, nervous eyes.  
            “Has anyone else _touched_ you, besides that man, Taline?” he asked, dreading whatever response she gave.  
            She shook her head and clung to him.  “There were some who tried, because I was damaged and despoiled, but they weren’t much of a threat on their own.”  
            His jaw clenched with a spasm of rage as he cradled her face in his hands; he wished she would stop casually referring to herself that way, as though she was somehow at fault for what had been done to her, for her parents’ inexcusable failure to protect her.  
            “Add their names to the list, bellissima.”  He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her velvety lips as he cuddled her closer and pressed a kiss to her temple.  
            “Are you really going to kill them all?” she asked softly.  “Everyone I put on the list?”  
            “Yes.”  She smelled like ashes and violets and the delicate skin of her throat tasted like rosehips and saltwater.  He wondered if all of her skin tasted the same, if she’d let him kiss and taste her everywhere he wanted.  “Is this okay?  Do you like this?  Should I stop?”  
            “I don’t want to be a tease,” she said apologetically, breath catching in her throat as he brushed his lips against the hammer of her pulse.  
            “But do you like what I’m doing?” he mumbled, pressing sloppy kisses against the base of her throat.  “Does it feel good?”  
            “Y-yes?”  
            Her hesitation felt like a bucket of ice water.  He pulled away from her and sat up, scrubbing a frustrated hand through his hair.  “Are you all packed?”  
            “I’m sorry.”  She clung to his arm, looking up at him with desperate, pleading eyes.  “Please don’t be angry with me.  
            “I’m not angry,” he sighed.  “Really, I’m not,” he added with a rueful smile as he stroked her spine.  “I think it’s fairly obvious that I find you very-” he cleared his throat to cover his discomfort “-attractive.  I _want_ you, but I _need_ you to want to be with me.  I’m, I’m explaining it badly, aren’t I?”  
            “I _do_ want to be with you,” she insisted, slithering into his lap.  “I don’t mind if you…do things,” she finished awkwardly with a scalding blush.  Ezio blushed in unison with her as memories of her under Cesare’s compulsion rushed back to him.  _I feel amazing.  Feel amazing with me_.  The incongruity of her predatory voraciousness then with her demureness now made him huff a short, humorless laugh.  
            “That’s not the same thing, bellissima.”  He slid his hand up her thigh and traced along the edges of her underwear; she tensed, breath rattling anxiously in her throat.  “I need for you to feel ready, to want this; I need for you to _like_ being intimate with me and I’m willing to wait-”  
            “I don’t want to wait,” she blurted out, surprising them both.  “I-I want to be a real wife.  I want to be carrying your child.”  She looked at him searchingly as she pulled his shirt loose from the waistband of his trousers.  “Please?  Please Ezio?”  
            That plea triggered something primal in him, that warm rush he felt when he was able to protect and defend and _care_ for someone, and he’d mourned its absence without knowing exactly what was missing.  He kissed her, hard and aggressive, and she submitted with a bitten off sigh, clutching the collar of his shirt with both hands – pulling his head down to hers, pulling herself up against him – and his hands flew to the buttons down the front of her dress, deftly unfastening them, before pressing her back against the bed.  
            _Jesus-H-Christ, I need this_ , he thought curling his tongue around hers.  _Gentle, be gentle with her, you monster_.  He pulled back slightly; his breathing was harsh as he smoothed her tousled hair back from her face.  
            “We should return to Alamūt,” he choked out, hands shaking as he carefully re-buttoned her dress.  “Avto needs additional information for the contract.”  
            “Like what,” she asked, rubbing her lips.  
            “Your last name, for starters,” he replied, catching hold of her hand and pressing a kiss against her palm.  
            She tensed.  “Hagopian.  My real last name is Hagopian.”  
            “Not for much longer,” he replied.  He stood, tucking in his shirt and stealthily trying to adjust himself.  She noticed and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.  He picked up her surprisingly light suitcase and extended his other hand to her; she took it with a shy smile.  
            “Taline Auditore,” she smiled up at him.  “It sounds nice, right?”  
            “Yeah,” he smiled back at her.  “It sounds almost a pretty as you are.”  
            Her laughter was raspy and unpracticed, but genuinely happy.  “Taline Auditore,” she repeated in a whisper, lips curving with a delighted smile as she said it.  “Taline Auditore.”  
            Her eagerness to take his name was bittersweet; Cristina had never acted like she thought he was a catch, like she couldn’t believe her luck that he’d chosen her.  She’d been suspicious of him, at first, and even after he’d won her over, even at their most intimate, she’d kept him at a distance.  He hadn’t seen it at the time, blinded with his affection for her, but in hindsight it was painfully obvious and he felt like such a fool; he’d fallen for her hard – hook, line and sinker – and it had never occurred to him that she didn’t feel the same.  
            Taline smiled up at him, body tucked snugly in front of his as the gelding cantered back to Alamūt.  _I must seem like a prince out of a fairytale to her_ , he thought with a wry smile.  _Showing up to rescue her and promising to slay all of her dragons.  I should have taken the time to find a white horse_.  Taline wanted to marry him, was eager to become pregnant with his children, she was starving for love and kindness and might be half in love with him already; she’d be easy to love, to fall in love with, his heart securely clasped in her delicate hands.  He felt bad that he hadn’t gotten her a ring, but this was something he could remedy.  He felt more at ease and thought, _I’ll get one for her on my way back from Armenia_.  



	14. Ezio: hunting trip (2/5)

            Taline’s eyes were round at the scale of Alamūt as they went straight from the stables to the lawyers.  He slowed his pace slightly while she looked around in wonderment – outsiders were normally never allowed this deep into the Order’s stronghold – but he didn’t want to risk her obvious wonderment drawing too much attention.  The buildings behind the fortress’s hulkering ancient outer walls were surprisingly beautiful, the angles and proportions mathematically perfect, their walls and columns carved with flowing arabesque.  He wondered how it all looked to her.  Avto was waiting for them, drumming his fingers against his desk in a rapid, irritating staccato as he glowered at Ezio.  
            “I used the standard language about financial provision in exchange for childbearing and rearing.  Really, Ezio!  I don’t know what you expected me to do with the overwhelming _lack_ of information you left me,” the lawyer groused, angrily brandishing the parchment at him.  “I don’t even have the young lady’s name!”  
            “My name is Taline,” the young lady in question said with a smile as she clung to Ezio’s arm.  
            Avto spared her a sour look.  “My condolences.”  
            “Can we just get this done?” Ezio demanded impatiently.  “I’m sure whatever language you chose is fine, Avto.  When can we sign the damn thing and be done with it already?”  
            “Taline’s family name?” Avto inquired snidely, metal nibbed eagle quill hovering over the parchment.  
            “Hagopian,” he responded curtly, drawing Taline more closely against him.  
            “Ugh, those Armenian names,” Avto grumbled.  “You’ll have to spell it.”  
            “Taline?” Ezio prompted, nudging her forward and resting his hands on her waist.  _God almighty, she’s tiny_ , he marveled as Taline patiently spelled her last name for Avto.  
            “I have to go get the quill.  I’ll be right back,” Avto told them, with a sharp, pointed look at Ezio.  
            _Yeah, yeah.  I’ll keep it in my pants_ , he thought, rolling his eyes as the lawyer flounced out of the room with a put-upon sigh.  
            “Why couldn’t we sign with his quill?” Taline asked, craning her neck to read the contract.  
            Ezio chewed his lower lip while admiring the graceful lines of her neck; he wished she’d worn her hair up so he could better appreciate it.  She looked up at him questioningly and he belated realized she’d asked him something.  
            “Oh!” he jolted guiltily.  He’d forgotten she wouldn’t know anything about the Order’s practices or contracts – not many outsiders did – and wondered if it would make her uneasy.  “Um, these quills are special; we sign our contracts in blood,” he explained quickly as he tried to unobtrusively look down her dress, hoping she wouldn’t question that rather important detail he’d neglected to mention.  He leaned down and leisurely trailed kisses across her cheek.  “Once we’ve signed, I want to show you our rooms.  They’re just for now – I might go back to Roma – but until that’s decided we’ll be staying in the guest apartments.  I can’t wait for us to be married and alone,” he murmured in her ear.  “Will you let me kiss your pretty breasts?  And maybe we can start trying for a baby?”  
            She jerked her head, blushing furiously.  “Yes, I’d-I’d like that, I think.”  
            “Good.”  Ezio smiled, relieved that she was she was still willing to go ahead with their marriage, even if some of the details made her uneasy – which, really, was all the encouragement he needed.  He leaned down brushing his lips teasingly against hers.  He couldn’t wait to take her back to their rooms where they’d be alone and uninterrupted.  He wanted to undress for her, show her how to touch his body, to give her orgasms and teach her how to make love.  “I’m going to bring your love down so hard, bellissima, the very memory of it will make you blush.”  
            He heard her breath hitch and he would have kissed her, but Avto bustled back into the room with a warning cough, a slim, ornately carved rosewood box tucked under his arm.  The lawyer took a moment to set the box on his desk, his long, ink-stained fingers almost caressing the lid as he eased it open and removed the writing implement within.  Catching sight of the object, Ezio thought ‘quill’ was a rather misleading thing to call it because it wasn’t made from a quill at all.  It looked like a very old-fashioned pen, carved from bleached bone or ivory with a sharp looking nib that gleamed sinisterly silver, reminding him unpleasantly of the straight razor in his shaving kit.  
            “Who’s going to sign first?” Avto demanded, holding out the quill and looking from Taline to Ezio expectantly.  
            “She will,” Ezio replied, taking the proffered quill and pressing the sharp tip to his left ring finger until it drew blood.  It only seemed right to take the first wound, to allow her a final opportunity to change her mind, even though the thought of her changing her mind after coming so far terrified him.  “Sign your name where Avto shows you, bellissima,” he murmured as he handed it to her.  “And use your prettiest writing; it’s going to leave a mark.”  
            She glanced at him quizzically as she took the quill, lips parting slightly as though to question what they were about to do and his heart thudded against his ribs with fear that she might decide she didn’t want this – didn’t want _him_ – anymore, but she nipped her lower lip with a nervous smile then turned her attention to the contract.  His breath hissed through his teeth as she signed where the lawyer indicated, every movement of her signature slicing into his chest, just over his heart, like a burning hot scalpel.  
            “ _Jesus_ , Avto,”he grumbled, pressing the heel of his hand against the stinging wound.  “You could have warned me.”  
            “Did you think it would tickle?” the lawyer sneered as he took the quill from Taline.  
            “Ezio!” she gasped, her hand shot out and then hovered tentatively over his chest.  “What happened?”  
            He looked down and saw the bright red of blooming bloodstains seeping through his shirt.  _Cazzo_.  Seeing and feeling the evidence of their actions gave him a guilty thrill, and his quickened breathing had nothing to do with the pain.  
            “It’s your signature, mogliettina.  These contracts leave…reminders, marks you can’t erase.  Anyone who cares to look will know I belong to you,” he explained, embarrassed at how breathless he sounded.  
            “Time for the husband to sign,” Avto announced, catching hold of Taline’s hand and piercing her left ring finger with the quill, drawing in the blood for Ezio’s signature.  The quill rolled smoothly between his callused fingertips as he took it, surprisingly heavy.  
            “I’ll be quick about it, I promise,” he told her.  For the most part he was, and there was just enough of the slightest resistance as he wrote to remind him where he was also signing, but his writing still cut deep with the arrogant flourishes and jaunty lines of his signature.  Taline stayed silent while he signed, gripping the edge of the lawyer’s desk with white-knuckled tension.  Ezio handed the quill to Avto and ran a reassuring hand down her back, unsure how to interpret her tension and silence.  “You okay, bellissima?  Would you like me to take you to a medic?” he asked gently.  She shook her head and hid her face against him.  
            Avto raised his eyebrows at him and then flicked his eyes down at Taline.  Ezio understood the unspoken concern and gave a slight shake of his head as he slid his arms around Taline’s tense body.  Avto spared him a hard, searching look that lasted just long enough for Ezio to wonder what he would do if the lawyer refused to sign, and then pierced his own finger with the quill, signed the contract as the witness and the marriage was sealed.  
            “Congratulations,” he said dryly.  “Safety and peace be upon you.”  
            “Safety and peace,” Ezio replied as he gently rubbed Taline’s back.  
            She stepped back from the circle of his arms with a shaky breath.  “We’re really married now?”  
            “Yes sitt,” Avto replied before Ezio had the chance.  “I hope you’re not just _now_ having second thoughts?”  Avto paused, as if to give them a moment to have those thoughts; Ezio sighed impatiently and toyed with the ends of Taline’s hair.  “The Order doesn’t allow for divorce, although there are, certain _grounds_ – certain extenuating circumstances ...”  Ezio stopped fidgeting and stared back at him, eyes narrowed and jaw set.  “...so long as the marriage remains _unconsummated_.”  
            “Which won’t be for very long,” Ezio snapped, roughly pulling his new wife against himself.  “We hope to have our first child by this time next year.”  
            “Then I won’t keep you,” Avto replied.  He was carefully cleaning the quill.  
            “Thank you,” Taline said softly.  Avto started in surprise and looked up at her sharply.  “Thank you for marrying us, for writing the contract on such short notice.  Really, it was most kind of you.”  
            Avto shifted uncomfortably and Ezio watched with amusement as the lawyer was unwillingly charmed by his petite bride.  Taline’s smile was unguarded, shining with genuine happiness, infectious and devastatingly attractive.  
            “I was just doing my duty,” Avto blustered, disarmed.  His sardonic tone had slipped and he didn’t seem to know how to comport himself.  “Take her away, assassin.  I’m sure you have better things to do than stand around here talking to me.”  
            “True,” Ezio agreed, sliding his arm around her shoulders.  “Come along mogliettina, let’s leave Avto to his work.”  His hand settled possessively between her shoulder blades as he guided her out the door, she leaned ever so slightly into his touch and he wasn’t sure exactly why, but it felt so _right_.  
            Taline beamed as he led her to their chambers.  “It’s pretty here,” she commented as she clung to the arm he had offered her and tried to keep up; the wooden heels of her shoes looked heavy and his stride was much longer than hers.  
            “It is,” he agreed, slowing his pace slightly so that he was no longer dragging her along.  She seemed relaxed and happy, like she was enjoying herself and liked being with him, but the closer they got to their rooms, the more nervous he felt.  He really, really didn’t want to hurt her, and he highly doubted her discomfort with sex would have just evaporated when they signed their marriage contract.  He threw open the door with a flourish and carried her over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind them before depositing his giggling bride onto the bed.  
            “What are we going to do now, Ezio?” she asked carefully removing her shoes and dropping them, one after the other, over the edge of the bed.  
            He hesitated a moment before answering her; he knew what he _wanted_ to do and hoped she felt the same.  _Really, it’s probably best to get this all done up front, before we have to tell anyone, just in case_ , he reasoned.  
            “Shall we finish what we started this morning?” he asked cautiously, untucking his shirt.  
            She went absolutely still and then licked her lips nervously.  “Of course.”  Her hands were shaking slightly as she unbuttoned her dress.  
            “Stop,” her murmured, laying a hand over hers as she fumbled with her buttons.  She looked up at him, lips quivering with a brittle, anxious smile and he felt a rush of possessive tenderness.  “Undress me.  You don’t have to take any of your clothes off before you want to; let’s undress me first, okay?” he whispered as he leaned over to kiss the side of her neck.  
            “Okay,” she agreed softly, deft fingers already unfastening the buttons of his shirt.  
            He shrugged the unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders when she finished and guided her hands to the placket of his trousers.  She unfastened his trousers and eased them down his hips.  He stood, toed-off his boots and kicked off his trousers before sliding back onto the bed beside her.  
            “Oh, Ezio.”  She hesitantly touched the drying blood that had soaked through his undershirt.  
            He grimaced.  “We should take it off before the blood really starts to dry and the shirt gets stuck to the wound.”  He looked at her searchingly.  “How’s your chest feel, bellissima?  Do we need to worry about fabric getting stuck to you?”  
            She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and slid her eyes away from his.  “I thought you said-”  
            He immediately understood where that sentence was going.  “You don’t have to take anything off now.”  He slid his fingers along her jaw and turned her face to meet his eyes.  “We can soak it off later if it gets stuck to the wound.  I would like to see it though,” he admitted, biting his lip, suddenly feeling clumsy and shy.  
            He’d seen the signature scar on his father’s chest, and Malik had proudly shown him and Altaïr his wound after he’d gotten married to Sakineh.  Altaïr hadn’t really understood the appeal, but Ezio had; he’d wanted to fall in love with someone like that, have someone who loved him enough in return to want his name carved over their heart.  His eyes stung and this throat felt tight and he turned away from her quickly and pulled his undershirt off over his head to hide his expression.  He sucked his breath in sharply through his teeth as the fabric ripped away and he felt the hot, stinging sensation of a reopened wound.  
            “Ezio?”  He felt her hand gently touch his back; her voice sounded concerned.  
            He hastily swiped the tears from his cheeks and took a deep breath.  “It just stings a bit, bellissima.  You should really make sure your clothes don’t stick to yours.  I’m sure there are some bandages in the bathroom you could use,” he said with forced lightness.  He’d wanted this for so long, and he’d gotten what he wished for in sense, but it had come about twisted and _wrong_ and was still probably better than he deserved.  _God has a sick sense of humor sometimes_.  
            “Is everything okay?” she asked softly, cool fingers caressing his cheek.  Her undeserved kindness was a painful as being stabbed with a blunt blade.  
            “Yeah,” he croaked and gulped a deep breath, then another and the words just tumbled out.  “I’m so, so sorry, Taline.  I-I should have told you, about what the contract required.  Shouldn’t have trapped you like this.  We should get you to a medic, get that treated so it doesn’t scar.  I shouldn’t have forced that on you.”  He was crying, and he was so tired of crying, of feeling broken and monstrous and lost; he wished Cesare hadn’t pulled him out of the river, that he’d just let him drown and be done with it all.  
            “I don’t want to go to a medic,” she insisted, and then she was kneeling in front of him unbuttoning her dress and pulling her slip down her shoulders.  “This means we belong to each other, doesn’t it?  That anyone who sees it will know that there’s someone, _somewhere_ , I belong?  I want that.  I want to be here, with you.”  There were drying smears of blood across her skin, small fresh beads of blood dappling his signature in the center of her chest, just over her heart.  “I don’t want a medic,” she repeated, reaching up and cupping his face in her hands.  “And I don’t want an annulment; I want to be your wife.  I want to be carrying your child.”  She stood and stepped out of her dress and slip, closer to him, fingers hovering over her signature on his chest.  “I want to _belong_.”  
            His chest felt constricted and her signature stung and his entire body just _ached_ for her softness and warmth.  He knew he didn’t deserve her kindness or her sympathy and that if there was a shred of human decency left in his soul he’d let her go before he sucked all the goodness out of her, but he was selfish and lonely and she was standing before him like a shimmering oasis after having been lost in the barren desert and he wasn’t a good enough of a man to resist.  
            “I want those things too.”  He bit his lip, hands hovering over her hips, eyes searching hers.  “May I touch you?  Will you touch me, please, Taline?”  
            She went still, lashes lowering and expression serene as the air around them was threaded with ribbons of heat; her magic tasted faintly like violets and ice water on the back of his tongue.  She dragged her finger through the blood on her chest and reached for him, marking his forehead, his lips and finally the open wound over his painfully thumping heart with her blood, and he didn’t understand what it meant, but he felt the deep currents of old magic shifting and running between them.  
            “Taline?”  
            “Yes.  My answer is yes,” she told him, and he should have been alarmed by the magic bleeding through her voice, but all he cared about was that she had said yes.  
            He cautiously leaned forward, pressing his lips to his signature, sliding his arms around her waist, hands tracing up her spine to the delicate wings of her shoulder blades and his mouth was filled with the taste of her blood – saltwater-sweet and iron.  She sank her fingers through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, as he dragged his lips lower, licking and kissing her breasts.  He sank to his knees before her and trailed kisses down her stomach, along the hollow of her pelvis and lower still.  
            “Finish undressing me.  Please, Taline?” he panted.  
            She moaned low in her throat and he felt the barely contained urge to tear her underwear away and make her come for him – hard and fast and breathlessly sobbing his name – _god-in-heaven_ , he wanted that.  She urged him to his feet and he eagerly obeyed, stomach cramping, coiling tightly, as she removed the last of his clothing and pushed him back onto the bed.  
            He settled on his back, propped up on his elbows, knees spread wide open.  He wasn’t modest, he trained hard – his physique showed it – and he knew he looked good, all sleek hard muscle and careful grooming.  He was used to women admiring his body and he wanted to show it off, for her to see what was now only hers.  Taline, however, was obviously uncomfortable, looking everywhere but at him, arms self-consciously crossed over her breasts.  He sawed his teeth across his bottom lip, trying to decide how to put her at ease as he sat up.  
            “Taline?  Come here,” he murmured reaching for her.  She hesitantly took his hand and he pulled her up against himself.  “Will you touch me, Taline?  I can show you how, if you’d like?”  
            “I, I,” she faltered.  He noticed how bright her eyes were with unshed tears right before she hid her face against him and he felt ashamed of how aroused he was by her vulnerability.  _Jesus-H-Christ_ , it was so hard to resist, to not just press her back against the mattress and claim his husbandly rights like he so desperately wanted, but he had never been that type of man and he wasn’t going to change now.  God knew how long he waited for Cristina; how could he not give Taline the same respect?  _Jesus, I hope my balls don’t explode_.  
            “May I touch you?” he asked, stroking her back soothingly.  
            She nodded weakly and he allowed his hands to wander.  He traced her spine, the wings of her shoulder blades and her delicate collarbones, the weals of her ribs and the sharp crests of her hipbones.  He squeezed her pert breasts and sucked the tightly pebbled buds of her nipples and he hummed as he slurped against her underwear until she writhed against the bed beneath him.  _Yes, oh god yes._  
            “Does this feel good?” he asked, scraping his thumbnail against the wet cotton covering her clit.  
            She gasped, cheeks flushed and back arching.  “Oh, Ezio.”  His name slid from her lips like a prayer and he _loved_ the way it sounded, the way it made him feel.  
            “Say my name, bellissima.  I love it when you say my name,” he muttered against the hollow of her throat.  _God-in-sweet-heaven_ , he wanted to be inside her.  “Please Taline, let me make love to you?”  
            “Will it hurt,” she asked shakily.  
            He sucked his breath through his teeth when her hand clumsily brushed against his erection.  “I’ll be gentle, bellissima, I promise; I’ll take you real slow.”  
            “But will it hurt?” she insisted, squirming against him.  
            “I-I don’t know,” he admitted.  “I don’t think it should, did it hurt when I put my fingers inside you?”  
            “No.”  She chewed her bottom lip for a moment and then jerkily removed her underwear.  
            His breath quickened as she dropped them over the side of the bed.  “May I touch you like that again, Taline?”  She squirmed and nodded before hiding her face against his chest.  He reached down and teased her open, sinking first one, then two fingers inside her.  “Is this okay?”  
            She nodded again and clung to him, breath hot and moist against his collarbone as her fingers twisted in his hair.  He exhaled slowly as he settled himself between her thighs, pressing against her opening; he desperately wanted to be inside her.  She felt good, pressed hot satin against his sensitive tip, but he was scraping, not sliding, and he knew from past experiences that thrusting would tear her delicate tissue-thin skin and there’d be pain and blood and that wasn’t how he wanted their first time together to be.  He knew she’d be wetter, easier to enter, if he performed oral sex, but the real question was if she’d allow him to do something so intimate while they were still, essentially, strangers.  
            “I’d like to kiss you here, bellissima,” he murmured as he traced her entrance.  
            “Why?” she jolted back in alarm and looked up at him with wide, anxious eyes.  
            “It will make it easier for me to enter you.”  He hesitated, gauging her reaction; she looked unconvinced.  “And I’ve been told that well pleasured women have an easier time conceiving.”  He waited a moment, and when she didn’t voice any protests he slid down her body to wedge his shoulders between her legs.  “Still okay?” he asked, nibbling along her inner thigh.  
            “What are you going to do?” she asked, voice stretched anxious-tight and brittle.  
            He sighed.  “Something that will feel good.  Trust me a little,” he coaxed.  Her breath stuttered as he slid two fingers into her.  She jolted at his first tentative lick.  “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.  Let me make you feel good, bellissima,” he murmured against her flesh; she whimpered.  He hesitated, stroking her gently for a moment before carefully curling his tongue around her.  She scooted her hips back, skittering away from him.  
            “Taline-”  
            “I don’t, I don’t think I like that,” she choked out, chest heaving and eyes wide, frightened.  
            He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  _Saint Dorothy, patron saint of newlyweds; Saint George, patron saint of husbands; Saint Margaret of Antioch, patron saint of pregnant women and soldiers._   He slowly opened his eyes and looked at his wife; she was crying.  _God-fucking-damn-it, Ezione._  
            “Taline-”  
            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean, I don’t, I’m so, so sorry,” she burst out, cheeks flushed and lips trembling.  She hid her face in her hands as she shook with sobs.  
            “Taline…”  He swallowed unsteadily; his chest felt constricted and her signature stung and he felt like such a brute.  She flinched when he tentatively touched her knee and his soul shriveled a little at her recoil.  _…Monster…Murderer…_  
            “I’m sorry, bellissima.  I thought, I thought you’d like being touched like that.  I wanted to make you feel good,” he said softly.  His fingers felt sticky, coated in the fluid of her body, and he wanted to lick them clean, to plunge them back inside her and coax her to orgasm, to spill his seed in the wet-hot clutches of her body and cuddle her close afterward, but he just sat there, rejected and unwanted, as the fluid on his fingers turned tacky, drying and flaking away.  
            “Ezio?”  
            Something brushed against his arm and he reflexively sprang off the bed, disoriented and defensive before he realized that she had sidled up and touched him.  His cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment as self-loathing ran like ice water through his veins when he saw the hurt she wasn’t quite quick enough to hide at his reaction.  
            “You startled me,” he explained, fidgeting with the buckles strapping his blades to his forearms.  “It’s been a long time since anyone has managed to creep up on me like that.”  He shrugged and looked at everything else – their clothes on the floor, the rich red of the comforter against the snowy-white linen of the sheets – to avoid seeing the hurt in her eyes, the way she avoided looking at him.  “I… Do you, would you be more comfortable if I got dressed?” he asked haltingly.  This wasn’t how he thought his wedding day would be – he’d imagined love and laughter, satisfying sex and happiness, and, and, _Cristina_.  
            “I’m sorry-” Taline started.  
            “No, please.  You have nothing to be sorry for, bellissima,” he interrupted her, surreptitiously nudging his foot through the tangles of their clothing, looking for his zir-šalvar.  
            “But I do.”  She intertwined their fingers and tugged his hand, drawing his unwilling gaze to meet hers.  “I saw her.  I saw how much you love her and how much she hurt you and I took you for myself and it was selfish and cruel of me to do that to you and I’m sorry for that.”  
            He sank his teeth into his bottom lip and took a slow, deep breath; he used that pain as an anchor, a handhold to stop his slide into the abyss he always fell into chasing memories of Cristina.  
            “Loved,” he corrected her softly.  
            “Excuse me?”  Her brows quirked in confusion.  
            “I _loved_ her; past tense.”  He squeezed her fingers, tangled with his.  “But that, that love, is broken and _ruined_ … and Cristina… she’s my _past_ , Taline.”  
            His throat was tight and his heart was pounding and it was like he was seventeen again, standing on the ledge of his first leap of faith.  _Just leap, Ezio, it’s only when we fall do we learn that we can fly_ , his mother had whispered in his ear before launching herself from the ledge in a perfect swan dive –  
            “I chose you, you’re my future.”  
            – and he leapt, and there was that horrifying moment of mortality, of the wind whistling past his face and the ground racing up towards him –  
            “Ezio…”  Her eyes were bright and her hesitant smile was hopeful and beautifully genuine.  She suddenly launched herself from the edge of the bed into his arms, he caught her against his chest, his signature pressed to hers, as her arms slithered around the back of his neck.  She was breathless and her lips were soft against his; she tasted like violets and ashes and ice water.  
            – and he remembered to spread his arms wide like the wings of an eagle, magic channeling, flowing through his blades, then everything went still and he was floating, sinking weightlessly through the air –  
            His back hit the mattress, jostling Taline but not breaking their kiss.  Her hands brushed against him, fingers skimming over his length before curling around to take stock of his girth and his body went tension tight as she hesitantly stroked.  He squirmed, hips lifting with each stroke of her hands.  She was watching him with a strangely intent expression, studying the rising flush across the crests of his cheeks and over his chest, the way his breath hitched when she rubbed him just so, and then she dipped her chin and took him in her mouth and sucked, drawing in more of him, cheeks hollowing as she _sucked_.  
            “Taline,” he groaned.  “You don’t have to, to do this.”  She gagged a little when he hit the back of her throat and he almost came as her tonsils contracted around him.  “Please, let me make love to you?  Let me, oh god, please let me.”  
            He sat up and pressed her back, beneath him, on the bed.  She moaned as he kissed her throat, nipped his teeth down her neck and along her shoulder, breath catching anxiously as he teased her body open for him.  
            “May I?”  
            Her hips lifted as he ghosted the pad of his thumb over her clit and he pressed himself against her, teasing them both as his tip, slippery with her saliva, just barely penetrated her.  
            “Yes,” she breathed.  “But please, please, don’t hurt me.”  
            “I’ll be gentle, bellissima, I promise; I’ll take you real slow,” he groaned between hungry, desperate kisses.  He could feel his muscles trembling, straining against the slow, deliberate rhythm he forced himself to follow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding into her a little deeper each time.  “Is this okay?  Am I hurting you?”  
            She whimpered in response, face hidden against his chest.  
            He froze.  “Taline?”  He knew he should probably stop, but he was so close and the velvety tight wet-hot clutch of her walls twitching against him felt good, impossibly good, and it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman.  “Bellissima, you okay?”  
            “Could you please, maybe, finish this part quickly?” she asked, voice muffled and small.  
            God, he was tempted, it wouldn’t even take all that much to finish himself off – he was so close already.  He snaked a hand between them to touch her, to tease an orgasm out of her tightly coiled body and tip himself over the edge.  
            “But I haven’t felt your love come down yet, bellissima.  I need to feel your body thrill first, can you do that for me?  Hmmm?” he murmured as he concentrated, channeling magic through his blades – nothing too strong, just a warm, glowy tingle to tip them both over the edge – down through his fingers into her body, and her breathing fractured as her muscles fluttered around him.  He sobbed her name as the gravity of her orgasm pulled him over the edge, thrusting deep inside her as his seed spilled.  



	15. Ezio: hunting trip (3/5)

            “Was this match approved by your mother?” Al Mualim demanded.  
            The Order’s mentor had drawn himself up to his full height, spine straightened to a hard right angle, and was gripping his cane tightly; his bony hands reminded Ezio of an eagle’s talons and he fervently hoped the old man wasn’t considering taking a swing at him with that heavy cudgel.  He _knew_ Al Mualim wouldn’t be pleased about his marriage, that he’d brought a total stranger into Alamūt itself – the very heart of the entire Order – without permission, without giving the Order a chance to check her background and approve his choice of bride.  Really, he’d known that, but this was going much worse than he had hoped when, moments earlier, he’d stood outside the receiving chamber awaiting entry.  
            “No, efendim,” he replied softly as he tried to avoid making eye contact with the other Masters in the room, all the explanations he’d carefully prepared withering away before they could reach his tongue.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ibrahim al-Yaziji and Selim exchange sly smiles and he curled his toes against the insoles of his boots.  He _almost_ wished he was back in Roma – it would be so much easier to explain and justify himself to his uncle – but the Roma motherhouse was so much smaller than Alamūt, he’d never have gotten one of the few lawyers there to draft a marriage contract, with an outsider no less, no questions asked.  The scale of Alamūt, the intricate bureaucratic machinery in place and the sheer volume of contracts processed, meant that the lawyers were accustomed to drafting whatever contracts a Master asked, with the unquestioned assumption that permission had already been granted.  Ezio felt a faint twinge of guilt for dragging Avto into his mess and hoped the lawyer escaped the fallout from his hastily executed actions.  
            “Did you consult your cousins?” Al Mualim continued with ruthless, righteous anger.  
            Ezio _almost_ squirmed under the Mentor’s unflinching milky-white gaze.  
            “No, efendim, he did not,” Altaïr said coldly as he crossed his arms across his chest, his face a true assassins’ empty mask.  
            Ezio mentally winced, but kept his expression carefully blank.  _Jesus, he’s pissed._   Altaïr was one of the few people Ezio found truly frightening when they were angry, especially since his cousin rarely allowed himself to be _visibly_ angry and had never actually been angry _with_ him; he wasn’t looking forward to facing Altaïr alone.  
            “I was not asking you, Altaïr,” Al Mualim snapped, words clipped short with displeasure.  Altaïr averted his gaze at the rebuke and scowled at the wall.  
            “If I may, efendim,” Kadija began, her diffident tone to the mentor clashing with the daggers she was glaring at Alamūt’s other three Masters, and Ezio felt an unexpected rush of something almost hopeful and tender; Kadija could bully Altaïr into accepting almost anything.  “The contract is signed and sealed-”  
            “It can be annulled,” Al Mualim interrupted her harshly, abruptly snuffing his flickering feeling of acceptance at Kadija’s supportive words.  
            Annoyance flickered in his chest; he’d come to discuss securing Taline’s family’s property in Armenia for the Order, not to justify his choice to marry her in the first place.  “With all due respect, efendim, no, it can not,” Ezio replied and there was a sharper edge to his otherwise respectful tone than he would have liked.  
            The disapproving silence was broken by Ibrahim’s sudden sharp bark of laughter.  “You sly, sly dog.  Did you deflower her in front of the lawyer, just to be sure?”  
            The look Altaïr leveled at his fellow Master promised nothing but violence and Ezio felt a rush of relief and gratitude that at least one of his cousins was offended on his behalf.  
            “Al Mualim,” Ezio said, loudly slicing through the spiraling silence that followed Ibrahim’s comments.  He took a deep breath and mentally recited a quick prayer to Saint Dorothy before regurgitating the hopefully persuasive argument he’d cobbled together on the walk over from his chambers.  “My bride has given me a list of names and once it is done she will be left an heiress.  I would like the use of any fidā'ī, ranked mercenary or higher, who speak Armenian to assist in the collection of her dowry.”  
            “Why ranked so high?” Selim asked, eyes narrowed as he thoughtfully scratched his neatly trimmed beard.  
            “My bride is a Cathar; the targets are all Cathari and I will train the fidā'ī who accompany me how to hunt them,” Ezio replied, keeping his voice even, calmer than he felt under so many hard gazes.  
            “Cathari make for dangerous targets,” Kadija commented dryly.  “Why should we risk our brethren for charity?”  
            “Not for charity,” Ezio countered quickly.  “When Taline left, her father was the head of a very wealthy merchant family; there is no reason for that to have changed.  He and his brothers own much property, property I intend to claim for the Order.”  
            “Your proposition is very tempting,” Al Mualim mused and Ezio caught sight of a flash of gold as the old man thoughtfully surveyed him.  _Eagle vision_.  “But answer me this: why do you wish to exterminate your new wife’s family?”  
            Ezio’s breath caught painfully in his ribs.  Really, it was incredibly stupid of him not to have a ready answer to that rather obvious question, but he wasn’t sure how to tell enough of the truth to satisfy Al Mualim and still protect Taline.  
            “It is a matter of…honor,” he finally said carefully.  “They have shown themselves to be unworthy, more than that I will not say, efendim, but believe that they deserve to die like mongrels in the street.”  
            “I see,” Al Mualim replied slowly.  
            _Do you?  Do you really?_ Ezio couldn’t help thinking as he bit the inside of his cheek.  Al Mualim did not appreciate references to his lost sight; his blindness was a result of exposure to an experimental mustard gas-magic hybrid deployed by British wizards in Iraq.  His warded robes had covered everything but the skin around his eyes and the exposed tissue had been ravaged within moments of coming into contact with that potent poison.  His survival was a testament to his skill as an Assassin.  The golden gleam in Al Mualim’s otherwise milky-white eyes reminded him that, while the Mentor may have lost his physical sight, he still had other, deeper, ways of seeing things.  
            “You must present her to me if you wish to keep her within these walls,” the Order’s Mentor continued.  “What is her name?”  
            His skin crawled with unease because he knew her signature across his chest was visible in eagle vision, the contract was so new and the quill’s magic had not yet started to fade, but he answered anyway.  
            “Her name is Taline, efendim,” he replied softly, acutely aware of the sudden intensity of Altaïr and Kadija’s attention.  “Taline _Auditore_.”  
            “Have you known her long?”  
            Ezio tried not to bristle at the perfectly reasonable question and did his best to avoid meeting Altaïr and Kadija’s pointed gazes.  “No, efendim, our acquaintance is, quite recent.”  
            The corners of Al Mualim’s lips curled slightly, almost as though he was tempted to smile.  “Like mother, like son.”  
            “Are you sure this is wise, in light of recent events,” Selim asked, heavy brows lowering in a surprisingly concerned scowl.  
            _Jesus H. Christ, does anyone not know about the Cristina thing_? he couldn’t help but wonder.  “One woman is the same as another in the dark,” he retorted with brutally feigned indifference.  “No offense,” he added quickly to Kadija, who waved off the apology with an indifferent shrug of her shoulders and a disingenuously disinterested look.  
            “Bring your bride to my chambers this evening for dinner,” Altair said in an undertone, resting a hand on Ezio’s shoulder with an unexpectedly unguarded look.  It never failed to impress him how good Altaïr was at crossing spaces unobtrusively, how he suddenly appeared by one’s side when he was at least fifteen feet away only a moment ago.  “It will be a nice opportunity for your family to get to know your new wife.”  
            _Shit, Mari_.  He’d conveniently forgotten about telling his sister about Taline.  _Shit, shit, shit_.  He’d been loosely planning to take Taline to meet his mother and uncle once she was pregnant; he didn’t have that luxury with his sister.  
            “I don’t suppose _you_ could tell Mari about Taline?  Maybe as a wedding present?” he asked hopefully.  
            “No.  I’m not falling on _that_ sword for you,” Altaïr replied dryly.  
            “I’ll tell her,” Kadija offered.  “But you two will be on your own for dinner tonight; I have other plans.”  
            “Since when?” Altaïr demanded, slitting a suspicious look at her.  “Is this some sort of punishment?”  
            “Sharing a meal with my sister is not a _punishment_ , Altaïr,” Ezio reminded his cousin.  
            “Of course it’s not, I misspoke,” Altaïr said quickly, gaze skittering across the polished stone floor as he shifted his weight.  
            Ezio didn’t have to look to know Ibrahim and Selim were thoroughly enjoying their unfolding family drama and he sucked his bottom lip.  _At least Masters don’t share gossip with anyone but each other and we’re all already in this room._   He shared Altaïr’s frustration; having someone around that Mari _cared_ about maintaining appearances for would make the evening go a lot more smoothly.  
            “Do you want me to tell her or not,” Kadija asked, rolling her weight from one hip to the other as she crossed her arms over her chest.  
            “Tell her,” Ezio decided with a resigned sigh.  “But wait until close to dinner so she doesn’t have time to go on a warpath and corner one of us alone, okay?”  
            “She would, wouldn’t she?” Altair muttered, glancing from Kadija to Ezio resentfully.  
            “Now that you have made your social plans,” Al Mualim’s voice cut across their conversation like thunder rolling from the sky.  “We really must finish the meeting you interrupted.  Present your new bride to me this afternoon, at four.”  
            “Your will is my desire, efendim,” Ezio murmured obediently, mentally calculating how much time he had until then and how many times he could make love to Taline before they had to prepare for her presentation; the sooner he got her with child the more secure their marriage would be.  
            He bowed out of the room and silently shut the door behind himself, hesitating indecisively for a moment before making his way to the infirmary; hopefully Asad was on duty.  


            He found his friend nursing a large cup of coffee and supervising a nervous looking young medic patching up an even more nervous looking novice.  The early afternoon light streamed in through the tall windows surrounding the octagonal room and the muqarnas adorning the domed ceiling shimmered in shades of cerulean and pearly-pale grays, mirroring the colors of the sky outside.  
            “Ezio,” Asad greeted him, belatedly trying to hide an enormous yawn behind his hand.  “Avto dropped by a little while ago, wanted to know where we went last night, had some crazy story about you marrying some pretty little kāfir this morning.”  
            “Yeah?” Ezio asked, uncomfortably scratching the back of his neck.  _Damn Avto and his big, gossipy mouth; worse than a woman, that one_.  
            Asad did a double take and then his eyebrows shot up in surprise when Ezio didn’t deny the gossip.  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Asad exclaimed with an incredulous look.  “I’ll be right back, don’t leave until I’ve cleared you both,” he instructed the assassins he had been supervising as he grabbed Ezio’s arm and practically dragged him from the room.  He caught a fleeting glimpse of the young medic looking panicked and the novice blanching gray as he followed Asad.  _That doesn’t bode well._  
            “Should you be leaving them alone like that?” he asked.  
            “It’s fine,” Asad replied, side-stepping quickly to avoid sloshing coffee on himself.  “Just a training accident, nothing serious.”  
            Ezio hummed noncommittally in response – all his training was in killing, not healing – he’d have to trust Asad’s judgment.  
            “You got married, like actually married – special quill and everything married?” Asad asked, shoving him into the dispensary and shutting the door behind them.  
            “Yeah.  Her name’s Taline,” he mumbled, torn between embarrassment and reluctant pride as he unfastened his robes and showed Asad the fresh signature wound on his chest.  
            “Wow.  Just wow.”  Asad took a deep swig of coffee and then coughed when he swallowed some of it the wrong way.  “Wasn’t Taline the name of that girl you left with last night,” he suddenly asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.  
            “Yes,” he replied, eyes narrowed, challenging Asad to comment.  
            “Wow.  Just wow,” Asad repeated with a shake of his head before taking another swig of coffee.  “So did you just come to share the big news or is this a professional visit?”  
            “Both?”  Ezio hitched a shoulder in an awkward half shrug and buried his hands in his pockets.  “Do you have anything that would, um, you know, increase my, um, potency?” he asked, skimming the shelves with suddenly profound interest to avoid eye contact.  
            “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that E-zo,” Asad replied wryly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe.  “Are we talking about trouble with hoisting your flag, or something else?”  
            “Hoisting my – No, no!  Nothing like that,” Ezio sputtered, cheeks burning with wounded pride.  “There are _no_ problems in that department whatsoever!”  
            “Yeah, okay,” Asad replied soothingly with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “So what’s the problem then?”  
            “I need to get Taline pregnant, as soon as possible,” Ezio replied, rocking back on his heels.  “My mother is going to be so angry when she finds out I got married without consulting her first and my chances of surviving breaking the news to her are greatly improved if I can distract her from murdering me with news of an incoming grandchild.  It’ll also stop Al Mualim from threatening to annul my marriage.”  
            “Okay then.”  Asad finished his coffee.  “I’ll consult some books and see what super knock-up potion I can come up with.  I assume you want this sooner rather than later, right?”  
            “By the end of day would be ideal,” Ezio replied hopefully.  
            Asad whistled between his teeth.  “Try end of week.  I’m not giving you some slap-dash potion that might make you grow a second head in the hopes it helps you knock up your little woman faster.  You want something now, I can give you a draught to help get your soldier on his feet more frequently and I _might_ be able to mix up something to make her ovulate on demand by the end of today – but that’s a little iffy.”  
            Ezio grimaced.  “I’ll take whatever help I can get; I think my wife finds hauling ashes with me a little… uncomfortable.”  He grimaced again at the memory of how Taline had started crying during sex, of how she had sobbed in his arms afterwards and how he’d felt like such a monster as he held her.  
            “I think that’s more a matter of technique than something I can help you with,” Asad snorted into his now empty coffee mug.  
            Ezio blushed furiously, immediately defensive.  “There’s nothing wrong with my technique!”  
            “I wasn’t saying there was,” Asad replied in his most soothing-doctor-voice, tapping his blade against his empty mug.  
            “It’s more of an issue of… logistics.”  
            “Logistics?”  
            “Yeah,” Ezio muttered, tilting his chin back to study the room’s copper ceiling, thoroughly embarrassed to be having this conversation.  “I think she finds… _accommodating_ me uncomfortable.  I mean, she’s just so, so _tiny_.”  
            Asad snorted.  “I know some guys who would love to have that problem.”  
            Ezio shot him a speaking look; annoyingly, Asad returned it with a look of his own, as though Ezio was missing an obvious point.  
            “Seriously though,” Asad continued, pushing away from the wall.  “I think that’s something your _tiny_ wife should discuss with a lady doctor; I’m not exactly qualified to give you that sort of advice.  And I should really get back before that kid manages to kill someone.”  
            “Yeah, okay.”  Ezio scrubbed a hand through his hair.  “Thanks, for helping me with this stuff.”  
            “Of course _amico_ ,” Asad grinned; his pronunciation wasn’t actually terrible, but then again, Altaïr’s sporadic attempts at Italian had really lowered his standards.  His friend stared at him for a moment, smile fading, replaced with an unsettling look of concern.  Asad was one of the few people who always took him seriously, always treated him like a _person_ rather than a _problem_ that needed fixing, and that made Ezio feel responsible, and right now, feeling responsible made him feel uneasy.  He felt a sudden need to explain himself, but wasn’t sure how.  Just as quickly as it had appeared though, the look was gone and Asad was grinning at him again.  “Hey,” he nudged his elbow into Ezio’s side, “congratulations.  Bring her by sometime soon and give us a proper introduction, yeah?”  
            “Yeah, okay,” he replied with a rush of relief, returning his friend’s grin.  “Maybe not right away though, she’s still got a lot to get through today and we need some time to get to know each other better.”  
            “Are you really that terrible in the sack?” Asad asked wryly over the rim of his freshly refilled coffee.  
            “Ha-ha,” Ezio retorted.  He dug the toe of his boot against the gap between two floor tiles where the grout was missing.  “I have to present her to Al Mualim this afternoon and after that’s done we’re having a private family dinner with Altaïr and Mari.  Kadija _miraculously_ had another commitment - one Altaïr knew nothing about - and can't attend.”  
            “Brutal,” Asad commented.  “That poor girl.  When are you taking her to meet your mother?”  
            Ezio grimaced.  “After she’s pregnant.”  
            “Then you’d best get working on that,” Asad laughed, raising his mug in an ironic toast.  “Because she’s going to hear about your new wife in no time flat; you know how gossip spreads, and a Master eloping with a kāfir is pretty juicy stuff.”  
            “Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious,” Ezio sighed, flicking his wrist in a two-fingered wave as he slouched towards the door.  “You’d better check on your student; that novice isn’t looking so good.”  
            He could hear Asad swearing as he walked out into the hallway and turned towards his chambers.  



	16. Ezio: hunting trip (4/5)

            Taline was curled up in bed when he returned to their rooms.  He was tempted to call her over, to start teaching her the intricacies of Assassin attire required of a Master while he undressed, but he let her stay in bed; there would be plenty of time for her to learn these things later.  He set his weapons down on the top of the writing desk and carefully laid every article of clothing he took off over the back of the chair in front of it.  Nervous gooseflesh erupted across his naked body as he approached the bed.  He could tell she wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t sure how to interpret her silence.  He hoped she wasn’t already regretting their marriage, regretting him.  
            “Taline?”  
            “Yes, vartapet?” she replied as she pushed herself into a sitting position, one arm nervously hugging the comforter to her breasts.  His eyes lingered on his signature, the raw red lines cut deep and already starting to scab over.  _My wife_.  It felt surreal and he wanted her – _Sancta Maria, mater Dei_ – he really, _really_ wanted her, but his conversation with Asad, and the memory of her tears only hours before, caused him to hesitate.  _Don’t be selfish, you stronzo_.  
            “How do you feel?” he asked as he slid into the bed beside her.  He could see her body tense but she didn’t recoil.  “I mean, did it hurt when I was inside you, mogliettina?”  
            “A little,” she replied cautiously, hugging the comforter more tightly to her breasts.  
            “I’m sorry.  I was trying to be gentle.”  He winced.  “Does it still hurt?”  
            “Not really.”  She was avoiding his eyes, squirming and uncomfortable.  “You were gone for such a long time; I was starting to get worried.”  
            He was glad for the comforter mounded across his lap, obscuring the way his body twitched at her words as he smiled reassuringly.  “Why were you worried, mogliettina?  You’re safe here.”  
            “I, I was worried for you,” she whispered haltingly, nervously smoothing and adjusting the comforter with her free hand.  “That you were in trouble, because of me, because you married beneath you.”  
            He sighed and leaned back against the headboard.  “Al Mualim _was_ angry that I married without permission, but that has nothing to do with you; he’d be angry no matter who my bride was.”  He reached for her and she allowed him to draw her body up against his bare chest, resting her cheek against him, just above her signature.  “He has demanded that you be presented to him this afternoon, at four, which gives us some time together before we have to bathe and dress.”  He rested his cheek against the top of her head and hugged her close, before trailing the fingertips of one hand over her bare skin.  “What is your clothing situation like, mogliettina?  Should I take you shopping?”  
            He wasn’t trying to buy her affection, not really.  Innocenzo, one of his fellow Masters in Roma with a _terribly_ ironic name, often teased that he liked to _buy_ women, but Ezio didn’t see it that way; he liked to _provide for_ women.  It made him feel good when his mother and sister wore the jewelry he bought them, when he had paid for the clothes he saw Cristina wearing; it made him feel like a man, capable and dependable.  He wanted to dress Taline.  He wanted to buy her lingerie and stockings, dresses, lipstick and high heels.  Her body was warm against his and he was getting hard at the thought of buying her stockings.  _Jesus, I’m sick_ , he thought, shifting his hips away from her and hoping she wouldn’t notice the signs of his arousal.  
            “I have clothes,” Taline replied cautiously.  
            “I know,” he murmured as he nuzzled his face into her silky soft hair.  “But I can buy you more.  I want you to have nice things, mogliettina – winter furs and silk stockings and cashmere sweaters.”  He rolled over to pin her beneath him and kissed her hungrily, humming in pleasure when she opened her mouth to him.  “I want you in pretty dresses and lingerie made of silk and lace.”  
            She laughed, equal parts astonishment and delight.  “You _want_ to buy me all those things?  Why?”  
            “You’re mine now and I want to take good care of you,” he replied, biting his lip shyly, hesitant to continue.  “I’m going to be gone, a lot, Taline, and I want to make sure you’re provided for, that you’re happy.  I want to know you’ll always be waiting for me when I get back.”  He slid a hand down her body, nudging her thighs apart to dip his fingers into her.  She squirmed when he sheathed two fingers inside her, flesh deliciously twitchy and slick around him.  “How does this feel, mogliettina?  Am I hurting you?” he asked huskily, gently thrusting his fingers.  
            “Ezio.”  Her hands fluttered uncertainly around his shoulders, nails catching, scraping the skin on his back.  
            “Yeah, mogliettina, say my name.  Feels so good,” he groaned against the hollow of her throat and he positively ached to be inside her.  “Will you let me make love to you again?”  
            “Yes.  Please be gentle, vartapet,” she whispered.  
            He kissed her cheek and was surprised by the salty wet taste of her tears.  His stomach twisted painfully as he pulled his fingers out of her body and she gasped at the sudden emptiness.  
            “Was I hurting you, Taline?” he asked her gently, trying to catch her eyes.  
            “Only a little,” she finally admitted hesitantly.  “I want to be a good wife, Ezio.  I want to please you.”  
            He sighed and nudged his nose against the underside of her jaw while he constructed his response.  
            “Remember what I said earlier?  That I need for you to like being intimate with me and that I’m willing to wait until you’re ready?  I meant every word, mogliettina.”  
            “And I meant it when I said that I don’t want to wait,” she replied, sliding her arms around his neck.  “I want a husband to protect me and give me children, I don’t care if it hurts.  I want to be a good wife to you, to give you no cause to ever stray, and I want you to plant a baby in me, the sooner the better.”  She guided his hand back between her thighs.  “Please, Ezio?”  
            He bit the inside of his cheek as he slid two fingers inside her, channeling magic through his blades.  She was tense and tight, her sleek walls clenching around him spastically.  
            “Let’s try bringing your love down before I enter you, maybe that’ll help loosen you up enough to accommodate me.  Does that sound okay to you?” he asked, sliding his other arm around her shoulders and cuddling her close.  
            She gasped at the sensation, at the magic he was channeling into her.  She squirmed against him, hands sliding up his torso before her nails hooked into the muscle of his shoulders and she arched her body towards his.  He loved everything about this moment – the way she felt against, around, him, the pulpy-soft sweetness of her mouth and how she moaned his name against his lips; he wanted it to last forever.  He wanted to tease orgasm after orgasm out of her until she was utterly spent and deliciously tender before sheathing himself, sowing his seed and cuddling her close.  
            She cried out when she came, cheeks flushed and brow puckered, and he couldn’t resist spreading her thighs wide and slamming into her.  He pulled her with him as he turned, settling her on his lap so that she was riding him, and he was struck, again, by how much larger he was than her, how fragile and delicate she seemed.  He loved the way she arched her back, the soft bounce of her breasts as he thrust, and the way her silky dark hair brushed against his chest when she leaned forward to kiss him.  His orgasm came suddenly and he was glad they were trying for a baby because he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself anyway.  
            “I’m so sorry,” he murmured against her hair afterwards as she cried softly in his arms.  “Did I hurt you?  I didn’t mean to.  Please say something Taline, I’m so, so sorry.”  
            “I asked you to be gentle, Ezio,” she sobbed and he felt like a monster.  
            “I know and I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” he replied helplessly, hands fluttering across her body, wanting to provide comfort but unsure how to do so.  “Did I hurt you, mogliettina?”  
            She buried her face against him and avoided answering.  
            He eased her face away from his chest, stroking the pads of his thumbs against the wet crests of her cheeks.  “Did I hurt you?” he repeated, dreading hearing her answer.  
            “A little,” she hesitantly replied and he groaned with despair and self-loathing.  
            “But the thing you did with your hands felt good,” she told him shyly.  “I think I liked that part.”  
            “Yeah?” he asked hopefully, tempering his tone gentle and soothing.  “Would you like it if I did that to you again?”  
            She hesitated, sawing her teeth across her bottom lip, heavy lashes sweeping her cheeks as she blinked slowly, before nodding.  “I think so, but not right now.”  
            “Okay,” he told her softly.  “I want to hold you and kiss you, mogliettina.  Is that okay?”  
            “I’d like that, vartapet,” she mumbled drowsily as she snuggled against him.  “Is there hot water?  I’d like a bath.”  
            “Would you like me to draw one for you?” he offered.  “Maybe we could take a bath together sometime?”  
            “That might be nice.”  She rubbed her cheek against his collarbone, warm breath tickling against his throat, as she traced his signature on her chest with careful fingers.  “Should I wear something with an open neck so everyone can see that I’m yours?”  
            “You want everyone to see my signature?” he asked with a smile, delighted that she wanted people to see her marriage wound, that she was proud of it.  
            “Yes.  I want everyone to see that I’m wanted, that there’s finally somewhere I belong.”  She smiled up at him, eyes hooded, lashes heavy.  “Will you maybe take me to the cabaret some time?  I want them all to see what a strong, handsome husband Lilitu brought to me.”  
            “You want to show me off?”  He couldn’t believe how good it made him feel that she called him a gift from her god, that she thought he was worth showing off.  He’d often felt like he was a shameful secret to Cristina during the latter part of their relationship, after she’d stopped holding his hand in public and didn’t like being seen with him; he knew now that was because there was someone else in her life, someone she considered a better man, whereas he had only become a _bad habit_.  The ache was still there, but Taline was taking some of the sting away from those hurtful words.  
            “Yes.”  She laid a hand on the flat of her abdomen.  “Am I your secret?  Will I get to meet your family?”  
            “Actually,” he nibbled guiltily at his bottom lip; he never wanted to treat her the way Cristina had treated him.  “My cousin, Altaïr, has asked us to dine with him and my sister tonight, so they can get to know their new family member.  We’ll be going to Altair’s rooms after Al Mualim has finished with us.”  
            “Will it just be the four of us?”  
            “I’m not sure.”  He brushed the backs of his fingers across the hand she had pressed against her abdomen.  “Altaïr’s lover, Sirocco, might be there as well, but maybe not; she doesn’t really get along with Mari.  Although I suppose it’s more accurate to say that Mari doesn’t get on well with her.”  
            “Why?”  
            Ezio frowned and ran his tongue along the familiar rim of his bottom teeth.  Really, it was such a seemingly simple question but there wasn’t a corresponding simple response.  
            “Mari…doesn’t approve of Altaïr’s relationship with Siro, and she’s not subtle about it,” he finally answered carefully.  
            “Oh.”  She cuddled against him as she contemplated his answer, the heavy silence stretching so long he almost said something to break it before she asked, “will she approve of me, vartapet?”  
            “She’d better, because I won’t stand for her being unkind to you,” he said firmly.  “Pick out your clothes bellissima, while I draw us a hot bath.”


	17. Ezio: hunting trip (5/5)

            “That wasn’t so bad,” Taline ventured and squeezed their intertwined fingers.  
            “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed with a smile as he pulled her closer and slid a possessive arm around her shoulders.  In truth, the meeting with Al Mualim had gone much better than he’d expected; Taline had responded to the Mentor’s interrogation with poise and charm, it couldn’t have gone better if he’d coached her.  
            “Is dinner going to take very long?” she asked, leaning into him.  
            “Probably?” he sighed.  Even if Altaïr and Mari – especially Mari – were on their best behavior, dinner would probably be a protracted affair; it’d take even longer if they bickered.  “Why do you ask, bellissima?”  
            “I’m just a little tired is all,” she replied with a shrug.  “Aren’t you tired, even a little?  Neither of us got much sleep last night.”  
            “No, we didn’t,” he agreed, scanning the hallway before pulling Taline into a small niche behind a pillar.  “And I don’t imagine we’ll get much tonight, either.”  He hooked his fingers under her jaw and tipped her chin up for a kiss.  She caught hold of his collar and rose up on her toes to meet his lips.  
            “I’m also sore, vartapet,” she told him apologetically.  
            “We can still cuddle,” he replied.  “And there are other things we can do; you don’t have to let me inside if makes you uncomfortable.  Maybe I can massage some of that soreness away?”  
            Taline smiled.  “Why are you so nice to me?  I don’t deserve it.”  
            He froze.  _Deserve_.  The word loosened a torrent of pent-up guilt – his mother would hit him so hard he’d see god and then shame him to the devil if she saw the way he’d been treating Taline – and, as it so often did, his guilty conscience berated him in her voice: _Ezio, what have you done?  You’ve manipulated this poor girl into marriage, all but forced yourself on her multiple times like an animal, and are just using her to make yourself feel better, like a child with a new toy you’ll inevitably put on a shelf and forget once you’ve grown tired of her.  I thought I raised you to be a better man than that_.  He couldn’t remember ever feeling so ashamed of himself.  
            “I’m not that nice, and really, you deserve better.”  
            “Ezio, stop,” she said, reaching up to lay a hand against his cheek.  “You _are_ nice – nicer than anyone has been to me in quite a while, at least – and I don’t want to belong to someone else, so you’ll just have to try to be the type of man you think I deserve.  Okay?”  
            “Yeah, okay,” he sighed.  “I guess I’m lucky you seem to have low standards.”  
            She laughed.  “Oh, Ezio.  Stop.  You have even lower standards than I do,” she teased.  “After all, you could have your pick of anyone, and you settled for me.”  
            “I didn’t _settle_ for you,” he replied with a brief flare of annoyance – _obviously I can’t have my pick of anyone_ – before he forced himself to smile and drew her against his chest, arms wrapped possessively around her waist.  _She seems happy and I shouldn’t ruin that for her_ , he reminded himself.  “Come on, let’s not keep them waiting.  The sooner we arrive the sooner dinner will be over.”  
            “And I’m sure it will be fine; I’m looking forward to meeting your family.”  She smiled up at him, slithering out of his embrace to take his arm.  
            “You’re right – it’ll be fine – and they’re your family now too, mogliettina,” he sighed as they continued down the hallway.  
            They were still some distance from the door to Altaïr’s rooms when they heard the muffled sounds of arguing.  Ezio felt his muscles tense and Taline looked up at him searchingly.  
            “What’s the matter?” she asked, brow furrowed in concern.  
            “Nothing, bellissima,” he assured her with strained smile.  _It might not be them_ , he fervently hoped.  A few steps from the door his brittle smile shattered at an unmistakably strident shriek that could have only come from his sister.  _I’m so sorry Altaïr_.  His sister got shriller the angrier she got; it usually took some time for her to work her way up to that particular pitch, so unless she’d started angry she’d been yelling at Altaïr for quite a while already.  He was briefly, selfishly, relieved that his sister’s fury was being channeled towards his cousin.  He hoped it burned out some before she inevitably turned her ire to him.  
            Taline squeezed his arm.  “Who’s that screaming?”  
            He grimaced.  “My sister.”  
            “Who’s she screaming at?”  
            He tilted his head back and took a deep breath.  “My cousin.”  
            “Why?”  
            “God only knows,” he sighed.  _Dinner is going to be so awkward, god-fucking-damn-it Mari_.  
            “I’m not hungry anymore, can we just go?” Taline asked tugging on his arm.  
            He was sorely tempted, it’d be so easy to just take his wife back to their rooms and hide from his family for another day, but he couldn’t do that to Altaïr.  
            “Sorry bellissima,” he told her with an apologetic grimace.  “But we’ve got to rescue Altaïr.”  He chose a moment when it seemed like his sister had paused in her tirade for breath to pound on the door.  
            “Ezio, please come in,” Altaïr greeted them, baring his teeth in what was probably supposed to pass for a smile as he opened the door and motioned them inside.  “And would you be so kind as to tell your sister to _mind her own business_?” he added with a venomous look at Mari.  
            “Or you could tell me yourself,” Mari shot at Altaïr; she was bristling, hair big and crackling with rage.  _Cazzo_.  
            Taline ducked behind him.  
            “She never listens when I tell her,” Altaïr replied, narrow-eyed and hard-voiced.  
            Ezio opened his mouth to intervene, to mediate yet another family argument, but before he could get any words out, Mari continued.  
            “Stop hiding behind everyone else and answer me like a fucking man, Altaïr!” she snarled.  “Would you have even made Master if you mother hadn’t died?”  
            There was half a heartbeat of shocked silence before Altaïr’s face went completely blank and his body tensed like a viper preparing to strike, and Mari’s expression flickered, almost apologetic, before hardening.  There was a sudden blur of movement as Ezio intercepted Altaïr, tackling him against the closest wall.  _What the ever-loving-fuck is going on?_   He was used to Mari bickering with Altaïr – the majority of their interactions consisted of awkward attempts at civility or terse verbal sparring– but this was a completely different level of hostility from both of them.  He guiltily hoped it wasn’t because of him.  
            “What’s _wrong_ with you, Maria?” Ezio demanded over his shoulder in Italian as he struggled to keep Altaïr pinned.  _Cazzo, he’s strong_ , he thought as he leaned all his weight into pressing his cousin against the wall and was only barely succeeding.  _When did he get so much stronger?  
_             “Why aren’t you asking what’s wrong with _him_ ,” she retorted in the same language, jabbing a finger towards Altaïr.  “Why he’s been so different lately, where it’s all coming from?  I know you’ve noticed too, haven’t you wondered, or have you been too preoccupied with treacherous whores to even care?  Go on, ask him!”  
            He shouldn’t have let Mari distract him – he knew better – and Altaïr hadn’t survived the last eighteen years purely on luck.  He drove a hard elbow into Ezio’s side and smashed the back of his head into his nose.  He was momentarily stunned by the blow, as his cousin roughly pushed him away and advanced on his snarling and cornered sister, and then alarmed at how easily Altaïr has sloughed him off.  Ezio saw stars and everything smelled like blood, tasted like blood, as he pinched the bridge of his nose, looking up just in time to see that Altaïr already had Mari by the hair, one hand snarled in her riotous curls.  Time moved with the syrupy slowness of a nightmare as Ezio shook off the screaming lightshow in his nasal cavity and watched as both Mari and Altaïr drew their hidden blades, the chilling scrape of metal echoing loudly in his skull and he _knew_ there was no way he’d get between them in time.  Taline screamed, sharp and shrill and so utterly unexpected it was like a spell was suddenly broken, and then Altaïr was standing by the window, scowling down into the gardens below, Mari was catching her breath and turning her attention to the group of Assassins clustered just outside the still open door, drawn almost hypnotically by the sounds of discord, and Taline had rushed across the room to him, pushing him back to sit down on the edge of Altaïr’s bed, worry etched across her face at the sight of his blood.  
            “ _Jesus_ , Altaïr.  I think you broke my nose,” Ezio groaned, cupping a hand below his chin so he didn’t bleed all over the floor.  _I guess it takes the name Auditore to really get under our Altaïr’s skin._   Selim’s words echoed in his head and he finally understood what the older Master had meant.  “What the hell is wrong with you two tonight?”  
            His sister gritted her teeth as she shot a hard look at Altaïr before stalking towards the open door.  
            “Show’s over, fuck off,” Mari snarled at the spectators and slammed the door.  
            “Manners, Maria,” Altaïr tersely chided, before glancing over at Ezio.  “I’m sorry habibi.”  
            Ezio felt his eyebrows rise; Altaïr rarely apologized for anything, to anyone.  
            “Hold still, let me see,” Taline said softly as she touched his face with gentle hands.  
            “I’ll bet you’re sorry,” Mari sneered, fingers massaging her scalp where Altaïr had pulled her hair.  
            “God _damn it_ Maria, stop embarrassing me in front of my wife,” Ezio snapped at his sister, temper finally frayed beyond even his tolerance.  Mari’s eyes shot to him in surprise before shifting her gaze away and pressing the knuckles of one hand against her lips.  Altaïr returned his attention to studying the gardens below his windows, brows drawn fiercely downward as he chewed his bottom lip and Ezio felt some of his frustration melt away in the ensuing silence.  
            “Hold still, Ezio,” Taline repeated, swatting his hands away from his face.  “This might feel a little strange.”  She laid a hand on his throbbing nose and he yelped in surprise before he could stop himself at the sudden rush of heat he felt at her touch, but her grip on his jaw was firm, holding him in place, and he could feel the damaged tissue knitting back together under her magic.  
            “There,” Taline said after a moment in satisfaction.  “All better now?”  
            Ezio experimentally scrunched his nose and then smiled up at her, the last of his bad temper evaporating at the sight of her responsive smile.  He’d been right about her – she was kind and powerful – and now she was _his_.  “Yeah, all better mogliettina.  Thank you.”  
            “You truly married a Cathar,” Altaïr marveled, turning his attention from the gardens.  “And a lovely one at that.”  
            Taline blushed, lowering her eyes demurely at the compliment as she leaned her weight into him.  Ezio stood, drawing her close against himself and smiled at Altaïr, grateful his cousin was making an effort, trying to be kind and act like they were a normal, happy, family.  
            “You’re Cathari?” Mari asked, arching a brow skeptically.  “What are you doing all the way out here?  We’re a long way from Cathar country.”  
            “I, I wanted a change,” Taline replied uncomfortably.  
            “I hope you’re hungry,” Altair interrupted, abruptly changing the subject with a quick glance at Ezio.  “I asked the elves to make fesenjan, like they’ve done for every wedding.”  
            Ezio breathed with relief and smiled.  “We had fesenjan at Malik and Sakineh’s wedding, d’you remember?”  
            “I remember you insisting that it be served at your own wedding,” Altaïr replied.  
            “And I remember you eating so much of it you got sick,” Mari added with a spiteful laugh and Ezio tensed, recognizing that she was shifting over to using her words instead of her blades; his sister had always fought dirty.  “You and Federico both.  Just before-”  
            “And now we’re having it again,” Altaïr interrupted her smoothly before she said anything she couldn’t take back.  “Another happy memory we’ll associate with this meal.”  He stepped away to ring for an elf.  Ezio heard the loud crack signaling the house elf’s appearance followed by Altaïr’s low-voiced instructions for their dinner.  
            “Have you had fesenjan before?” Mari asked Taline with forced lightness as she fidgeted in the uncomfortable silence, momentarily reminded of her manners.  
            He really wished Mari hadn’t brought up Federico; their older brother – the best man at Malik’s wedding – had been dead for twelve years.  Death and grief were never far in the life of an assassin and he didn’t think it was too much to want just one day of untainted happiness in his adult life.  
            “Yes, I have,” Taline replied.  “It’s really good; I think it’s a lovely choice.  Who are Malik and Sakineh?” she asked glancing from one assassin to another.  “Will I get to meet them?”  
            Altaïr abruptly turned his face away, but not before Ezio has seen the muscles in his jaw spasm as he clenched his teeth.  Taline had no way of knowing her question was salting fresh wounds and she flushed, uncomfortable and anxious, in the tense silence following her inquiry.  
            “You’ll need an Ouija board,” Mari finally said sardonically.  “They died a few months back.”  
            Ezio shot a resentful look at his sister and slid his arm around Taline’s waist.  “Malik was our cousin, our mothers were all sisters – his, Altaïr’s and mine.  Aunt Bernice died of Spanish Flu, and Aunt Aaliyah-”  
            “Didn’t come back from a contract,” Altaïr finished for him, tone emotionless and flat.  “Only Aunt Maria is left.”  
            “Oh,” Taline said slowly.  “I’m so sorry for your losses, I didn’t mean to…” her voice trailed off as she dropped her eyes with an embarrassed blush before blurting out, “who is Federico?”  
            “Our brother-” Ezio started.  
            “He’s dead too,” Mari cut in, scraping her thumbnail across her bottom lip.  “And our father.  We have more dead relatives than living ones at this point.”  
            There were several loud cracks in quick succession as house elves appeared with their meal.  Altaïr motioned them to the table.  
            “Please, come sit and eat; let’s talk of happier things,” Altaïr said, stilted and uncomfortable.  He hesitated before adding softly, “let the dead carry the dead.”  
            “A well-remembered phrase from my childhood,” Taline said softly.  “People usually said it about family lost to the Medz Yeghern.”  
            Ezio frowned at the unfamiliar phrase.  _Let the dead carry the dead_.  He was about to ask them to explain when Altaïr caught his eye and shook his head slightly.  _Not the time, gotcha_.  
            “What does that even mean?” Mari asked, blowing a curl out of her face.  “It sounds like the sort of gibberish Sirocco would say.”  
            Altaïr’s eyes narrowed.  
            “It is a reminder, that the past can only hurt us if we let it,” Taline unexpectedly replied, successfully diffusing the situation before either Altaïr or Mari had a chance to escalate it again.  “That the dead will receive their justice beyond the Veil and nothing we do can alter that.”  
            Mari arched a skeptical brow and Ezio hurried to change the subject.  
            “Will Siro be joining us this evening?” he asked Altaïr as they took their places around the table, he and Taline on one side, Mari on the other and Altaïr at the head.  
            “No, she has business with Cesare tonight,” Altaïr replied, avoiding eye contact.  
            “Which is the euphuism my cousin uses to avoid admitting that his lover is out feeding on other men,” Mari explained to Taline.  “Pass the chelo, please, Altaïr.”  She must have known she’d gone too far because she seemed to tense up even before Altaïr turned towards her, eyes ablaze, before he forced himself to stop and relax, narrowing his eyes.  
            “I would like to remind you, Maria, that we have already embarrassed Ezio once this evening,” Altaïr said with chilling politeness.  “Please try and refrain from doing so again.”  
            Mari dropped her eyes to her empty plate, a grudgingly chastened look on her face and Ezio released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding in relief.  
            “Have you heard about Alamūt’s gardens?” Altaïr asked Taline conversationally, ignoring Mari’s resentful snort.  “I have an excellent view of them from my windows, would you like to see?”  
            “Y-yes, I’ve heard they’re lovely,” Taline replied, casting a questioning look at Ezio.  He gave her fingers a quick squeeze under the table.  
            “You should go see, mogliettina, before the light’s completely gone,” Ezio said encouragingly.  _And give me some space to have a private chat with my sister_ , he mentally added.  
            “You don’t mind?” Taline asked.  Ezio wasn’t sure if she was addressing him or Altaïr.  
            “Not in the slightest,” Altaïr replied and promptly rose from the table.  “It will only take a few moments, and, as Ezio already pointed out, we’ll have lost the light after dinner.”  
            “Excuse me,” Taline murmured, flashing a quick smile at Ezio and Mari as she rose from the table.  Ezio watched Altaïr escort Taline to the window and begin pointing out features of the gardens below.  It meant a lot to him that Altaïr was using his best manners with Taline, the charmingly old-fashioned, formal ones he seemed to reserve exclusively for Al Mualim and Ezio’s mother.  
            Ezio turned her attention to his sister, eyes narrowing with irritation. “What is _wrong_ with you tonight?” he hissed at her in Italian.  “Do you _want_ her to think badly of us?”  
            “Am I supposed to care what some _cabaret dancer_ thinks of me?” Mari snapped back at him, easily falling into their native language.  
            He clenched his teeth at her petty jab.  _Kadija must have let that slip_ , he thought with annoyance.  
            “Please, tell me you haven’t _actually_ married her already.”  
            “As a matter of fact,” he replied, unbuttoning his shirt to display Taline’s signature, “I have.”  The shocked look that flashed across his sister’s face was _incredibly_ satisfying.  His shirt had felt strange against his chest without one of the ubiquitous undershirts he was used to wearing, but it had been worth it to be able to show the marriage wound so quickly and easily.  
            “Christ almighty, Nana’s going to disown you.” Mari marveled.  “Not only is she _not Italian_ , she’s not even an Assassin!”  
            “Nana will just have to learn to love her, you all will,” he replied, fingers curling into a fist against his thigh, the gesture hidden beneath the table.  “I’ve married her and you’ll all have to be nice if you want to see our children.”  
            He could hear Altaïr relating the history of the gardens, and the fortress itself, to Taline as they stood by the windows, words murmuring like water over worn stones.  
            “What were you fighting with him about this time, un’asina?” he finally asked wearily.  
            Mari’s brows lowered into a fierce scowl.  “Sirocco.”  
            “Really, Maria?” he sighed with exasperation.  _It’s never going to end and follows me wherever I go.  Damn this family sometimes, damn them all to hell._   “We talked about this the other night; he _loves_ her.  Why can’t you let him enjoy the happiness and comfort she brings him?”  
            “She’s using him!”  
            “You can’t possibly know that,” he ground out.  “Why do you persist in being such an unreasonable _bitch_ about their relationship all the time?”  
            Mari gaped at him in outrage, and really, he was shocked at what he had just said as well; he’d never called his sister that word before, although he’d certainly thought it on more than one occasion.  He resisted the urge to immediately apologize.  
            “Cesare good as told me so last night,” she snapped, recovering quickly.  “He called him her _pet_ and said that we’re all just cogs in their bigger plans and that we should all be grateful for it.”  
            “Yeah, that sounds like Cesare,” Ezio acknowledged with a dismissive shrug.  It was _exactly_ the sort of thing Cesare would say – he’d heard the incubus call Altaïr Sirocco’s pet multiple times, directly to Altaïr’s face – and the rest of it he would say just to get a rise out of Mari, to amuse himself.  “Was this when you were talking to him yesterday morning?”  
            “No,” Mari insisted.  “It was last night.”  
            “But,” Ezio hesitated uncertainly.  “He was at the cabaret with us last night.  I was sitting next to him for Christ-sakes.”  
            “It was really late,” Mari explained, voice tight as she fidgeted uncomfortably.  “He came to my room after I was asleep.”  
            Ezio froze, last night felt like ages ago after everything that had happened that day.  He vaguely remembered Cesare’s sudden absence when he’d left with Taline and immediately felt guilty for being so distracted.  “He didn’t _hurt_ you, did he, Mari?”  His sister’s cheeks flooded with a scalding blush as she dropped her eyes and his stomach wrenched with sudden anxiety.  “Mari?”  
            “No,” she said slowly.  “Nothing like that, he just rattled me is all.”  
            His breath hissed between his teeth as he sighed in relief.  “Yeah, he likes to do that, doesn’t he?  What all did he say?”  
            “A bunch of stuff,” Mari replied with a shrug.  “He said Sirocco’s been _doing things_ to Altaïr-”  
            “I’m pretty sure she’s been _doing things_ to him for quite a while,” he snorted.  
            “Not _those_ things,” Mari hissed in embarrassment.  “Other things, _sinister_ things.”  
            Ezio sighed again, suppressing an involuntary shudder at memory of the many marks Sirocco had left on his cousin’s body.  “You think _everything_ the Maraas do is sinister, Mari.”  
            “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”  
            He shrugged as his eyes drifted back to Taline, hungrily sliding over the graceful column of her throat.  Her magic when she healed his nose had felt _good_ , natural and unforced; he wanted to feel it again, he wanted to feel her touching him with that magical charge while they made love, and he was suddenly impatient for the meal to end.  
            “Cesare admitted that they’re using us to get something Sirocco wants, but he wouldn’t say what it was, _and_ that Sirocco is doing stuff – stuff Cesare doesn’t approve of – to keep Altaïr.  I’m serious, Ezio, anything _Cesare_ thinks is questionable has got to be really bad,” Mari insisted, stiff fingers prodding his arm to get his attention.  Reluctantly he shifted his full attention back to his sister.  
            “So you told him all this and he doesn’t believe you,” Ezio surmised, flicking his eyes impatiently towards their cousin.  
            “He thinks I’m making it up, that I dreamed my whole conversation with Cesare, or something,” she replied, voice hard with indignation, mouth twisted with the bitterness of her words.  
            He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he was starting to get a headache and he didn’t even to want consider what she was trying to tell him.  “That’s because the things you’re saying, Mari, sound crazy.  Just, _buckets_ of crazy.”  
            She opened her mouth to argue.  
            “Cesare has a really _bizarre_ sense of humor – you _have_ to know this by now – and he likes to rile people up for his own amusement,” he continued, calmly ignoring his sister’s angry glare.  “Don’t let him get under your skin.  You’re helping him drive a wedge between you and Altaïr; our family has always been strong because we stick together, don’t undermine that strength now, un’asina.”  
            “Why would Cesare want to drive a wedge between me and Altaïr?” she asked cautiously.  
            _Great, more fuel for her paranoia bonfire.  Way to go Ezio_.  He sighed.  “Because he thinks it’s funny when you two fight?  Because he likes stirring the pot?  Maybe he likes the way you look when you’re angry, or maybe he’s just trying to make life more difficult for you because he’s still mad about you hitting him in his wounded shoulder.  Take your pick.”  He bowed his head and nibbled at his lower lip.  “Look, I’m sorry Mari, maybe it’s just – we can talk about it later, okay?  And I _am_ sorry I didn’t tell you.  I never meant for things to happen this way, they just did.  I don’t expect you not to be mad at me, just ... can’t you just pretend to be nice, for me?  Can we please just get through this dinner, act like a happy family, just for one night?  Please Mari?  I need your help to get through this.”  
            Mari’s shoulders sagged and her bottom lip wobbled.  “Yeah.  I can do that.  I’m sorry, E-zo; I shouldn’t be ruining your wedding day.”  
            “It’s okay Mari, you haven’t ruined anything,” he assured her huskily.  _I do a good enough job of that all on my own_ , he mentally added.  
            “Enough horticulture you two,” Mari called over her shoulder to Altaïr and Taline, switching back to Arabic.  “Dinner is getting cold.”  
            “Do you like the gardens, mogliettina?” Ezio asked, reaching for his wife.  Taline settled on the cushion beside him, leaning into him as he slid his arm around her shoulders.  
            “Yes, it looks so pretty.  Will you take me for a walk in them?” she asked, one hand resting lightly on his thigh.  “Altaïr says there are many different paths through the Garden.”  
            “Yeah, I can do that.”  He smiled as he heaped chelo on their plates, thoroughly enjoying her closeness and easy affection, the possessive weight of her hand on his thigh somehow both comforting and erotic.  
            “I can’t possibly eat that much, Ezio!  You’re trying to make me fat,” Mari protested as he served her.  
            “You’re a long way from fat,” Altaïr commented as he ladled fesenjan over the chelo Ezio had served her.  “Eat up; no one wants to share their bed with a bag of bones.”  
            “Stop picking on my sister,” Ezio scolded him with a smile.  “Mari’s not the only one with sharp edges in this family.”  
            “We’re all nothing but sharp edges,” Mari replied, sliding an apologetic look towards Altaïr as she placed a piece of tahdig on his plate.  
            “That’s probably true,” Altaïr agreed, briefly meeting her eyes before Mari dropped her gaze.  
            Ezio smiled as he watched them.  Altaïr and Mari never apologized to each other, at least not with words; their apologies consisted solely of gestures.  He remembered the pitcher of mint tea Altaïr had brought Mari when she returned from her latest contract and wondered if he had been apologizing for some row.  
            “Except for Ezio,” Altaïr told Taline, a smile ghosting across his lips.  “You have to really try to find a sharp edge to him.”  
            “That’s true,” Mari agreed, prodding her food with the tines of her fork.  “You married the nicest one in the family.”  
            “I’m so glad,” Taline replied, picking up her own fork.  “It’s so much better than hearing that you’ve married the worst man in the family, I’d imagine.”  She smiled up at him mischievously, eyes sparkling like polished gemstones.  _Maybe I’ll get her an emerald, for her pretty green eyes_.  
            “They’re just saying that because it’s our wedding day; I really am the worst man in the family,” he jokingly assured her.  
            “I think we take turns with that title, habibi,” Altaïr said wryly as he tapped his blade against their glasses.  
            “Oh boy, _sparkling water_ , what a treat,” Mari commented drolly as she lifted her glass.  
            Altaïr sighed.  “I’m just relieved to have gotten water without rose petals floating in it.”  
            “Rose petals?” Taline asked.  
            Ezio snorted.  “They’re _still_ doing that?”  
            “I think Sirocco said something about liking it once to the elves and they’ve been doing it ever since,” Altaïr explained to Taline as Mari snigged into her plate.  
            “And here I was hoping to be allowed a few glasses of wine,” Ezio sighed.  “When I really should be more worried about what random plant parts I’m going to find floating in my drink.”  Neither Altaïr nor Mari appeared amused at his quip.  _Right, too soon_.  
            “What sort of wine did you want with dinner, vartapet?” Taline asked softly, reaching for his glass.  “Maybe something light and sparkling?”  
            “Maybe.”  He smiled down at her.  “I’d settle for anything; I’m positively gasping for a real drink.”  
            “Try this,” Taline murmured, handing his glass to him; the water inside had darkened to a lovely rosé.  He swirled the fluid and lifted the glass to his nose with a cautious sniff; it smelled like a rosato – with a light, strawberry aroma and spicy notes of cinnamon.  He took a cautious sip, savoring the way the flavors rolled over his tongue.  
            “It’s very good, mogliettina,” he reported with a smile.  “Want to try some, Mari?” he asked, offering his sister the glass.  
            “Is it really wine?” Mari asked, examining the contents of the glass skeptically.  
            “You’ll have to try it and see,” he replied, biting his lip to keep from laughing at the expression on Altaïr’s face as Mari took a cautious sip.  His cousin disapproved of drinking alcohol.  
            “Water into wine, what a party trick!” Mari exclaimed with a laugh before taking another drink.  
            “Someone did it at every wedding I went to growing up,” Taline explained, obviously delighted that her spell was so well received.  “There was one wedding, where the bride’s scorned lover showed up, turned everything – all the water, all the wine – to blood and then cursed the couple.  It was shocking and really quite frightening.  All the beautiful fish died in their tanks and ponds.”  
            “Taline,” Altaïr leaned forward, fingertips grazing her arm, “Keep this magic just between us, in this room.  Don’t let the others see what you can really do; it is _not safe_.”  
            “But I’ve got Ezio to keep me safe now.”  
            He cuddled her against his chest with an indulgent smile.  “Of course I’ll protect you mogliettina, keep you nice and safe so you can grow our children in peace.”  
            “And I will protect you while Ezio is out on contracts, but you must not draw that sort of attention to yourself,” Altaïr insisted, expression stretched tight with worry.  “It is not safe.”  
            Unease prickled along Ezio’s spine.  He felt like there was something more Altaïr wasn’t saying, some deeper meaning to his words that he wasn’t understanding.  Unlike him and Mari, Altaïr had grown up at Alamūt, he understood the fortress’ culture more intimately than either of them ever would.  _He could be speaking from experience_ , Ezio mused.  Altaïr’s magic had always been unusually powerful, and he’d been orphaned at ten; he and Taline both understood about having to be self-sufficient from a young age, about avoiding unfriendly attention and unwelcomed scrutiny.  He was almost envious; his cousin seemed to have more in common with his bride than he did.  Taline had stiffened slightly in his arms as she met Altaïr’s intense gaze.  
            “I understand perfectly,” Taline replied softly.  
            “You’re such a killjoy, Altaïr,” Mari said, slitting an irritated look in his direction.  “It’s just a little fun.  You _do_ know how to have fun, don’t you?”  
            “Of course,” Altaïr replied, drumming the fingertips of one hand against the table.  
            The mood in the room grew taut and he could _feel_ their civility fraying.  Soon they would start bickering again.  He clenched his jaw.  Tried to breathe slowly through his nose.  Tried to calm himself down.  _Jesus H. Christ, what’s gotten into them tonight?  What has gotten into all of us?_   And every time he had to force them all to be reasonable, it cost him.  Every time an argument whirled back to life, he could feel himself slipping further away.  _Give it a rest already you two, give it a fucking rest.  
_             “No, no.  It’s fine,” Taline quickly cut in, alternating her smile between Altaïr and Mari.  “It’s good for me to know these things; thank you for sparing me costly mistakes.”  
            “So how do you do it?  The water into wine trick, I mean,” Ezio asked, watching Altaïr and Mari lean away from each other out of the corner of his eye.  
            “The same way you do any other magic, I suppose?” Taline replied uncertainly.  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me, vartapet.”  
            “Like, what’s the spell you use?” Mari asked, handing the glass back to Ezio.  His eyebrows rose as he noted how much emptier the glass had become.  Mari shrugged off his unspoken question and Altaïr swept his eyes over the two of them with a lingering, disapproving look.  
            “There’s no spell?  You just” – Taline lifted her hands, palms up and fingers spread – “will it to be.  I’m, I’m explaining it poorly,” she finished helplessly.  
            “No,” Altaïr replied slowly, eyes hooded and thoughtful as he studied his own glass of sparkling water.  “I understand what you mean perfectly,” he added, curling his fingers around his glass as his expression slid into an assassin’s perfect empty mask.  
            Ezio watched as smoky tendrils of dark violet blossomed in his cousin’s water, blurring and diffusing, darkening, until all of the liquid in the glass was a uniform shade of purple, glittering with carbonation like the desert sky at twilight when the stars are just becoming visible.  
            “What the – how did you do that?” Mari demanded, wide-eyed and breathless.  
            “Nothing is true,” Altaïr replied softly, and Ezio slowly released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  Altair smirked and lifted the glass to his lips.  
            “The Creed, Mari,” Ezio answered her with a smile.  “Embrace the Creed.  And really, Altaïr, wine?”  
            “Sparkling black currant juice, actually,” he replied, offering the glass to Taline, who accepted with a smile and took a hesitant sip.  
            “Not bad,” she proclaimed.  “Actually, for a first attempt, this is really quite good.”  
            She started to hand the glass back to Altaïr, but he motioned for her to give it to Ezio.  He accepted with a smile and lifted the glass to his lips; the flavor was weak and watery, but recognizable as cassis.  _Of course Altaïr successfully does this moments after he sees it for the first time_ , Ezio thought with a flash of jealousy that seared across old hurts and recent shortcomings.  He immediately felt guilty; there was very little in his cousin’s life aside from the Creed, there wasn’t much else for him than refining his skills, his magic.  Ezio willfully brushed those thoughts aside; the starkness of Altaïr’s life depressed him if he dwelled on it for any length of time.  
            “Well done,” he forced himself to say with more cheer than he actually felt as he offered the glass to Mari.  
            “No, thank you.”  She waived the glass away.  “I don’t really like cassis.”  
            “What is the Creed?” Taline asked before taking a quick bit of chelo and fesenjan.  
            “Maria?” Altair prompted, leaning over his plate as he lifted a forkful of food.  
            Mari sighed and set her fork down with slightly more force than necessary.  “Nothing is true; everything is permitted,” she recited in a sing-song drawl.  
            “Which means?” Altaïr prompted again between bites.  Ezio watched his cousin bolt down his meal and wondered if Altaïr was even bothering to chew.  
            “That all we perceive is merely an illusion, a veil that obscures the truth that lies beneath.  That illusion can be altered, manipulated to serve our purposes; the only limits are the ones we impose ourselves,” Mari sighed, toying impatiently with her fork.  
            “And what is the truth, then?” Taline asked carefully.  
            “That nothing is true and everything is permitted,” Ezio answered her softly.  “The illusions are deep, layered; I have never heard of anyone who has managed to reach down to the unmalleable truth beneath them all.”  
            “I have,” Mari blurted out, catching her bottom lip between her teeth nervously in the sudden silence.  “Irika told me.”  
            “Who’s Irika?” Ezio asked, glancing from Mari to Altaïr.  
            “She’s a fifth-tier Veteran from the Ukraine,” Altaïr replied with an indifferent shrug.  “If her Grandmaster has any sense he’ll raise her to Master; she’s more than ready and they could use the help.”  
            “Who’s she under?”  Ezio hugged Taline against his side and took a heaping bite of fesenjan; he’d always loved the tangy pomegranate and walnut stew.  _It’d be even better was if it was made with duck instead of chicken_ , he thought, before remembering that Altaïr didn’t like duck.  _He’s so weird sometimes_.  
            “Krystafier-something,” Mari replied with a shrug.  “It’s a recent promotion; his predecessor unexpectedly bought the farm.”  
            “You are speaking of a Grandmaster, Maria; accord him the proper respect,” Altair said, eyes narrowing.  Ezio could tell from his tone that he’d repeatedly lectured her on that particular subject and his breath caught as he waited for the bickering to start again.  
            “Do _you_ remember his last name?”  
            Altaïr arched a brow.  “Not off the top of my head.”  
            Ezio sighed with relief and shoveled a heaping forkful of food into his mouth to hide his smile.  _Point, Mari.  
_             “What happened to the person the veteran told you about?” Taline asked.  “The one who could see the truth?”  
            Mari’s eyes shot to Taline before uncomfortably sliding away as she toyed with her fork.  “Irika said it drove him mad, that it fractured his mind, shattered his soul.  He had to be given mercy.”  She drew her blade with a flick of her wrist.  
            The massive bite of food he’d taken felt like a rock lodged in his throat; Ezio had to swallow twice to get it down.  _She’s getting almost as bad at small talk as Altaïr._   Beside him, Taline flinched at the sound of Mari tapping her blade against her glass to refill it.  
            “Have you had your picture taken together?” Altaïr asked, breaking the sprawling silence.  “You really ought to have a picture on your wedding day.”  
            “Yes,” Mari rushed to agree.  “A nice one, to send Mother, and someday show your children.  I can take it.”  
            “Thank you-”  
            “That sounds great, Mari-”  
            “-but I don’t want to be any trouble,” Taline finished and Ezio’s attention snapped down to her in surprise, the rest of his response momentarily forgotten.  His wife carefully set her fork down and reached for her glass, eyes resolutely downcast.  
            “It’s no trouble at all,” Mari replied quirking her brows at him in disbelief.  “I love taking pictures.”  
            “She has a really good eye for it too,” Altaïr added, carefully dabbing his lips with a linen napkin.  “Her pictures always come out so well.”  
            “Thank you, cousin,” Mari mumbled, almost as uncomfortable receiving the compliment as Altaïr was paying it.  
            Ezio smiled at them, eager to reinforce their good behavior.  “We’ll have to send a copy to Uncle Mario too, you know how he and Mother are.”  
            “Ugh,” Mari groaned.  “Don’t remind me.  I’ll be right back; I’m just going to grab my camera.”  
            “We’re in the middle of dinner, Maria,” Altaïr protested.  “Can’t it wait?”  
            “I’ll just be a moment,” she replied, already halfway to the door.  “I’ll be back before you know it.”  
            “Let her go,” Ezio said, resting a staying hand on Altaïr’s forearm with an easy smile.  He tried not to take Altaïr’s quick flinch at being unexpectedly touched personally; his cousin had always shied away from physical contact, which made his longtime relationship with Sirocco all the more inscrutable to Ezio.  
            “She doesn’t listen very well, your sister,” Altaïr groused, pushing his food around on his plate.  
            Ezio shrugged and ran a hand along Taline’s spine.  “She never has.”  
            “Was Sirocco with you last night?” Taline asked Altaïr shyly.  “At the cabaret?  She’s very beautiful.”  
            Altaïr’s gaze shot to her, sharp with suspicion and unease.  He studied her for a long, tense, moment before finally answering softly, “yes, she was.  I sat between her and my sister, Kadija.”  
            Taline’s smile was steady, unforced.  “Will I get to meet your sister?  She’s a Master as well, correct?”  
            “How did you know that, mogliettina?” Ezio asked her softly, watching Altaïr tense ever so slightly.  
            Taline looked up at him, brow creasing slightly.  “It’s the way you all move, the color and flow of your magic.  But yours is slightly different,” she continued thoughtfully, addressing Altaïr.  “It’s paler, like the color’s being leached out of it?  It’s not, entirely, _natural_ , how it’s different; like it’s being changed?”  
            Ezio felt a cold, prickling sensation down the back of his neck as he realized he didn’t really understand his wife’s magic, didn’t know _her_ – what she was capable of, what she could _do_.  Altaïr met his eyes over Taline’s head and Ezio read the warning in his eyes.   
            “Taline,” he said slowly, carefully.  “Altaïr is right, don’t let the others know what you can do – not even Mari – it’s not safe.  You understand, mogliettina?”  
            “Yes, vartapet,” she whispered, gaze downcast and to the side, fingers twisting together nervously in her lap.  He could see his signature across her chest, cut across the swell of her breasts, and something inside him just _snapped_.  He was roughly pulling her against himself, forcing her jaw back, up, kissing her hard and fierce and she, she was completely limp, compliant, in his arms, like she’d let him do anything he wanted to her and he wondered how far she’d let things go.  His hand was halfway up her thigh before he heard Altaïr pointedly clear his throat and remembered where they were and all the reasons why what he was doing was wildly inappropriate.  
            “Don’t stop on my account,” a familiar voice said and Ezio’s head snapped up just in time to see Sirocco slide onto Altaïr’s lap.  
            Even though he had become somewhat accustomed to Sirocco, the sight of her in evening dress made his breath catch; she was so frighteningly beautiful.  She was wearing a long evening gown with a full, flowing skirt made of semi-sheer peach silk organza.  Her pale skin glowed like alabaster, the graceful slope of her bare shoulders broken only by the thin spaghetti straps of her gown and the necklace of sparkling ruby poppies around her neck.  
            “Altaïr has told me congratulations are in order,” Sirocco said with a dazzling smile as she reached up and unfastened her necklace.  “Please accept this as my wedding gift to you; it will look beautiful when worn by your wife.”  
            Ezio blushed at her unexpected and welcomed kindness as he accepted the jewels.  The necklace _was_ beautiful and undoubtedly very costly.  He wanted to ask where she had gotten it, but decided it would be rude.  
            Sirocco smiled serenely, and, seeming to read his mind, commented, “It was a gift from Prince Konstantin Konstantinovich of Russia.  He was a nice boy, a good soldier.  His death was… unnecessary and cruel.  So many of the Romanovs were in the military and now it seems that Russia is paying for their loss and I can’t find it in my heart to pity them.”  
            Ezio’s throat felt tight.  _How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that?  
_             “Thank you,” Taline said softly.  “It’s a beautiful and incredibly generous gift; thank you so much.”  Her hand slid up his thigh as she leaned forward to examine the necklace and Ezio felt his blush deepen.  Altaïr caught his eye, the ghost of a sympathetic smile curving his lips, before he nuzzled his face against Sirocco’s neck.  
            “Maria has gone to get her camera.  She’s going to take a wedding picture of Ezio and Taline,” Altaïr told her.  “I’m glad you’re back; I thought you’d be away longer.”  
            “Cesare is recovering quite well.  He is strong enough to hunt on his own again,” Sirocco replied, settling herself more luxuriantly across Altaïr lap.  She gathered a forkful of food from Altaïr’s plate and brought it to his lips.  “It’s you, my fragile love, that needs to be fed, you’ve grown too many bones from grief.”  Altaïr obediently opened his mouth as she fed him bite by bite.  
            _Fragile is one of the last words I’d associate with Altaïr_ , Ezio mused as he handed the necklace to Taline.  _Hard, obstinate, aloof – yes, fragile – not so much_.  
            “Enough, Siro,” Altaïr protested, ducking his head to avoid the last of the food she was trying to feed him as he tried to take the fork from her.  He continued his protest in Farsi, which, judging from his tone, Ezio guessed was something along the lines of _stop treating me like a child in front of my guests_.  Ezio bit his bottom lip to stop his smile when Sirocco answered and Altaïr sighed in defeat and allowed her to feed him the final bite.  He focused on kissing Taline’s temple to avoid the undoubtedly stormy look Altaïr was giving him.  He wished his cousin spoke Italian so he could privately tell him that there wasn’t any shame in being affectionate with your woman.  
            “Good evening, Maria,” Sirocco murmured as she set down the fork.  “How lovely it is to see you on this happy occasion.  Cesare sends his love.”  Her smile was serene.  
            Mari blushed a brilliant rouge and quickly ducked her head.  “You shouldn’t just leave your furs lying on the floor,” she replied churlishly, picking up the enormous fox fur stole Sirocco had dropped in the middle of the floor.  “This stuff is expensive, you know.”  
            “Is it really?” Sirocco hummed as she cuddled into Altaïr, whose eyes were narrowing dangerously as he frowned at Mari.  
            “Got your camera all ready, un’asina?” Ezio asked quickly, before Altaïr – or his sister – could pick another fight.  _Not that either of them will ever admit to picking a fight on my wedding day_.  He was tempted to cast a silence on the both of them, just for the remainder of the meal.  _Except Altaïr would probably break it and then Mari would be even more infuriated that I cast one on her_.  
            “I’m not really dressed for pictures, vartapet,” Taline protested as she carefully set the jeweled necklace down on the table.  
            “You’re dressed well enough; that may not be the nicest dress, but I’m sure it’s your best,” Mari replied, tone sweetly overdone.  Taline shrank away from the honeyed venom in Mari’s voice.  
            “You look lovely,” Sirocco contradicted Mari as she smiled at Taline.  “With such a pretty face and fine figure, no one is going to be looking at your dress.”  
            “She’s right, mogliettina,” Ezio agreed, casually sliding an arm around Taline’s waist.  “You look like a nymph in a fancy painting.”  
            Mari briefly made the face she had always made when they sucked lemons as children before she pasted on bright brittle smile.  “Yes, of course,” she said.  “Why don’t you let me help you with your hair?”  
            Ezio shot his sister a warning look; it was laughably fake civility, but he’d take it over petty insults.  Mari shrugged him off and he almost said something, but he caught sight of Sirocco’s expression and was struck silent.  Sirocco looked angry, hard-eyed and set-jawed _angry_ , without any thought to beauty and quite frankly it was terrifying.  The expression was gone so quickly he could almost convince himself that he’d imagined it.  _She doesn’t like Mari very much.  Although, why should she?  It’s not like Mari’s been particularly subtle about not liking her_.  It made him uneasy, and he wished, not for the first time, that his sister would learn a little interpersonal subtlety.  Watching Sirocco watch Mari, he couldn’t help but think on Cesare, and what Mari had said.  Sitting there in the presence of Sirocco’s anger and raw magical power, it was harder to dismiss what his sister had said as crazy.  He didn’t know how to wrap his mind around any of it, though.  
            “Siro,” Altaïr murmured as he nudged his nose against the side of his lover’s clenched jaw.  “Would you go check with the elves about desert?  Please?”  
            “Yes, of course my love,” she finally replied, turning her attention to him with a tight smile.  She leaned in towards Altaïr with a low-voiced admonition before slithering out of his lap.  She vanished into thin air after a few steps.  Altaïr sat perfectly still, head bowed and fingers twisted, clenching the fringed edging of the cushion he was sitting on.  After a moment he drew a deep breath, lifted his head and unclenched his jaw.  
            “There’s a mirror just over there, above the dresser, if you wanted to do any primping for the photographs,” Altaïr offered as elves appeared to clear the table.  
            “Thank you,” Taline replied stiffly, avoiding eye contact as she obediently rose.  
            Ezio watched her slowly walk to the dresser and begin smoothing her hair in front of the mirror before turning his attention to his sister, nerves humming with irritation.  
            “That word she calls you, what does it mean?” Altaïr abruptly asked, head tilting slightly.  “Vartapet.  Is it Armenian?”  
            “I-” he faltered, searching for an answer and coming up blank as he realized, with a sickly sinking sensation, that he’d never bothered to ask Taline.  He felt particularly foolish remembering that she had asked him what ‘bellissima’ meant, which would have been the perfect opportunity to ask her about her use of ‘vartapet’ for him.  “I, um-”  
            “You have no idea, do you?” Mari asked with a thoroughly condescending sigh.  “How old is she?  When is her birthday?  Did you even ask her full name?  _Jesus_ , Ezio.”  
            “She’s twenty-two,” he snapped, scowling at Mari as he drummed his fingers on the table in a hard, irritated staccato.  
            “Is that what she told you?” Altaïr asked.  “She looks very young.”  
            “So?”  
            Altaïr shrugged and carefully prodded a grain of rice the elves had missed when they cleared the table with the tip of one finger.  “So nothing.  She just looks young for twenty-two is all.”  
            “I was born on March 15, 1920, in Yerevan,” Taline said softly as she returned to the table, hands demurely clasped together and pressed down against her skirts.  “My parents emigrated there from Van in 1919.  They had three sons – many years before I was born – but none of them survived the Medz Yeghern.  My mother died shortly after my birth of childbed fever and my father remarried when I was ten.  I have no other siblings.”  She lifted her chin and leveled a changing look at Ezio.  
            Ezio took a deep breath as he stood and faced her.  “I was born on June 20, 1916, at my grandfather’s villa in Lucca.  Our parents – mine and Mari’s – were Assassins, both fidā'ī.  None of our grandparents approved of the match, and our parents eloped when our older brother, Federico, was conceived.  Our father and Fredo died while out on contract when I was fourteen; I became a Master at twenty-three.”  
            Taline smiled.  “Your mother, is she a Master too?” she asked shyly.  
            “No,” Mari answered for him, snapping a lens onto the body of her camera.  “Father’s family forced her to retire after they got married; she never rose past Veteran.  Let’s take the pictures now, before desert is served.”  
            “Sounds good to me,” Ezio replied with an easy shrug as he slid an arm around Taline’s waist.  “Show Mari your beautiful smile, mogliettina.”


	18. Altaïr: after bathing rituals

            Winter came quickly in the mountains, and while autumn lingered on the plains below, it was already relinquishing its hold on the higher elevations.  It had not started snowing yet, but frost already crept inward from the edges of the windowpanes in delicate open lacework patterns when the sun went down.  
            “What are you reading, Siro?” he asked softly, carefully running a comb through the tangles of her still-damp hair as they lounged across his bed after their bath.  
            “Mmm?” she hummed, glancing over her shoulder with a drowsy half-smile.  “Just some poetry, my love.”   
            “What sort of poetry?  Will you read it to me?”  
            She rolled over onto her back and smiled at him teasingly, eyes gleaming in the dim light emanating from the brazier of glowing coals.  “Why Altaïr, are you so desperate for attention that you’re asking me to read you love poems?”  
            “Are you trying to make me jealous?” he asked her softly, nudging her back onto her side and carefully pulling apart a particularly large tangle.  He hated the thought of other men writing her poetry, especially since he was fairly certain that he wouldn’t be able to write anything halfway decent for her himself.  
            “Everything makes you jealous, my love,” she sighed as she sat up and leaned towards him, tracing his lips with the tip of her finger.  “Especially things that you really have no cause to be jealous about.”  
            He playfully nipped at her fingertip.  “Of course I’m jealous; I love you.”   
            “That’s not how love works, Altaïr,” she told him gently.  
            He mulled over her words with a thoughtful frown, wincing slightly as he shifted position.  
            “Do you hurt, my love?  You should have told me,” she chided him, softening the rebuke with a smile, correctly interpreting his expression and body language.  
            “It was just a long day.  My newest student is almost as strong as he is sloppy,” he replied with a shrug as he slowly ran the comb through her hair, checking for any tangles he might have missed.  “Will you read to me?  I like the sound of your voice.”  
            “Your sweetness still surprises me, from time to time, my love,” she said, brushing the backs of her fingers against his freshly shaven cheek before she turned back to her book and selected a passage.  Her voice was beautiful, soothing; he would have happily listened to her read aloud for hours, no matter how dry or dull the subject matter.  
            He carefully separated her hair into three sections, trying to make them as even as possible.  _You need to improve your nurturing skills before anyone in their right mind will trust you with a little girl, Aquila_ , Kadija had told him, and so he’d asked Sirocco to teach him how to braid hair; it was something he’d never had a reason to learn before and it seemed fairly straightforward.  So far he’d only done simple braids and they had all come out lopsided and sloppy, inconsistent; it was surprisingly difficult.  Frustrating.  
            “You’re pulling too tightly,” Sirocco admonished, reaching back to adjust his grip.  “Gentle your hands, my love, like you’re holding something delicate, fragile.”  
            “I’m trying,” he ground out, the tension he forced out of his hands settling in his jaw and shoulders.  
            “You’re trying too hard.  Relax.”  
            His breath hissed between his teeth in a frustrated sigh – it looked so easy and the concept was just so _stupidly_ simple.  “Why is this so difficult?”  
            “It’s not,” she laughed, pulling her hair free from his hands.  “It just takes patience and practice; you can’t expect to do everything perfectly right after you learn it.”  She turned with a smile and gently touched his face; he pressed his cheek into her palm.  She was right – of course she was right – but the frustration still rankled, rubbing like a pebble in his shoe on a long run.  
            “I’m not good at this, Siro.”  
            “You’re only just learning, my love.  Give it time,” she soothed, reaching for him invitingly.  
            “How many times do I have to fail until you’ll admit I’m bad at this?” he asked, flinching away from her arms.  He didn’t want to be petted and fussed over; he wanted her to listen, to take his concerns seriously.  
            “Altaïr,” she sighed, dropping her hands to her lap as she regarded him thoughtfully.  “I’m going to get you a cat,” she announced, tapping her index finger against the point of her chin.  
            “Why?  I don’t want a cat,” he replied quickly in alarm.  
            “It will be a good learning experience, teach you about caring for another living thing you can’t command and who won’t automatically adore you.”  She smiled at him indulgently and he felt a twinge of foreboding.   
            “That’s not a good reason for me to get a cat.  Living creatures aren’t toys or learning tools.”  
            “There are hundreds of thousands of cats starving on the streets; I think any number of them would be happy to be a learning tool in exchange for shelter, regular meals and a soupcon of affection,” she replied as she slithered closer to him.  He was certain there was a flaw in her argument but ceded her point with a shrug.  
            “I already have someone in my life who rarely listens to my commands and doesn’t adore me,” he pointed out, rolling his shoulders and flexing the tired muscles in his forearms.  
            Sirocco hummed thoughtfully.  “Speaking of Maria, what did you and she fight about earlier this evening?”  
            “What makes you think we fought?”  
            “I can always tell.”  
            He frowned and slid his gaze along the floor avoiding her eyes.  “We argued,” he finally admitted in the stretching silence.  
            “ _Argued_?” she repeated, her inflection marking it as a question.  
            “It became rather-” he hesitated, embarrassed at how easily he had lost his temper at Mari’s verbal barbs “-heated.”  
            Sirocco hummed again and drew one of his hands into her lap; strong, supple fingers gently massaging the tightly corded muscle of his hand and forearm.  “And what was this _argument_ about, my love?”  
            He sighed.  “You.  We argued about you and-” he unsuccessfully tried to swallow the knot of discomfort suddenly obstructing his throat “-and the things you and I do, together.”  
            “She’s just jealous of your happiness, my love,” Sirocco soothed.  “I’m sure she finds it rather, _lonely_ , here.  Perhaps she’d be happier with someone to _occupy_ her free time?”  She smiled and reached for his other hand.  “Tell me, my love, what does she know of the things we do together?”  
            “Apparently Cesare paid her a visit last night and they had quite a lengthy chat about us,” he said softly, watching her hands massage his.  “And Cesare seems to know an awful lot about…” he trailed off, too uncomfortable to finish that sentence.  
            “Damn him back to Nod,” Sirocco sighed, tone as sweet and soothing as before, but he had seen the flash of anger in her eyes.  His brow quirked in momentary confusion – Sirocco and Cesare seemed to always move in tandem – before he was struck by the full implication of her reaction.  
            “You tell Cesare – about the things we do together – about _that_?” he asked hesitantly, uncomfortably wondering what else she told the incubus – if they had discussed his awkward offer for her to feed, his eagerness and inexperience.  His skin burned with embarrassment at the thought.  
            “I questioned my kin before I started feeding you.  You are far too precious to me; I didn’t want to risk causing you any harm,” she responded, tipping his chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes.  “The things you and I do together are nobody’s business but our own – private, special, just between us – isn’t that so?”  
            He could almost taste her magic in the air between them, sweet and heavy on his tongue, and he recognized that he should be at least somewhat concerned by that, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.  “Yes, Siro.  I don’t tell other people our secrets.”  
            “We have no secrets, my love.  Calling them s _ecrets_ suggests that the things we do together are shameful, to be hidden and denied,” she scolded him softly.  
            He parted his lips slightly and drew a careful breath.  He _would_ be ashamed for anyone else to know some of the ways she touched him, the things he confessed to her when they were alone, how often he had cried in her arms like a child over the loss of a student or colleague and how tightly he clung to her when he awoke from his nightmares.  
            “There is nothing shameful about loving someone and enjoying the intimacy which accompanies that love, Altaïr,” she told him gently.  
            He avoided her eyes and jerked his chin in a nod.  “Did Cesare know what Taline was before he set Ezio up with her?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject to mask his discomfort as he wove a silky strand of her hair around his fingers.  
            “No my love.  We did not know.”  She cocked her head and studied him for a moment, eyes luminous in the soft light.  “Do you believe me, Altaïr?”  
            “Of course,” he responded without hesitation.  “Why wouldn’t I?  You love me; you’ve always been truthful with me.”  
            She reached up and cradled his face in her hands.  “Altaïr,” she hesitated, the edges of her front teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she caressed her thumbs over his cheekbones.  “You mustn’t assume that the people who love you are always being honest.  They may be mistaken in what they say, they may tell you things they know to be untrue because they think a lie will be better for you than the truth.  You must question everything people tell you, sometimes even me.”  
            “Are you saying you would lie to me?” he asked slowly, hoping he was misunderstanding what she was trying to tell him.  
            “If I thought it would protect or safeguard you, yes, I would lie to you,” she replied softly.  
            He leaned forward to nuzzle his face against hers.  Her cheek was warm and silky-smooth against his own; he loved the way she felt against him, her unique amalgam of softness and strength.  She smelled like heaven – Madonna lilies and myrrh, clean soapy hyssop and the briny tang of sex – he inhaled deeply, greedily.  “Then I choose to trust you, trust your judgment.”  
            She suddenly hugged him tightly, pressing her lips against his temple in a hard kiss.  “But I might be wrong,” she whispered in his ear.  He clung to her, drawing her body more firmly against his own; sometimes he almost felt that, if only he could hold her close enough, he would never have to be parted from her, that he could somehow fuse her very essence to his own so that he would never again be left behind, alone.  
            “I will always choose to be wrong with you rather than right with anyone else or alone.”  She was frightening him, a little.  “My life is empty without you, Siro.”  
            “No, my love, it is full,” she countered softly.  “You have Kadija and Ezio and Maria; you have your aunt, and Hadassah.”  Her hands were gentle as she rubbed the residual tension from his neck and shoulders, leaning in so close her lips brushed against his, her breath fanning warmly across his skin.  “Ezio should have children soon enough; he could barely keep his hands off his new wife, even with his sister scowling daggers at him most of the night.”  
            Altaïr snorted, nuzzling his face against hers.  “That poor, poor girl.  I doubt he told her anything about his life, about what her new life will be, before he married her.”  
            “Do you know when he’s returning to Rome?” Sirocco asked.  There was the slightest edge to her tone that caught his attention; he leaned back to study her expression and took his time answering her, puzzling over what it might mean.  
            “His uncle hasn’t sent for him yet.”  He shrugged.  “Al Mualim is going to put him to work soon, maybe with the younger assassins, potential fidā'ī – Ezio’s always been good with children, they just, _gravitate_ to him, _like_ him – if he doesn’t go back to Rome soon.”  
            Sirocco tilted her head as she watched him.  “You’d like him to stay, wouldn’t you, my love?”  
            He scratched at a scabbed-over scrape on the side of his thigh and avoided her eyes.  He’d gotten it from a poorly executed slide-tackle during an impromptu game of futbol after training; he’d scraped himself up pretty good but hadn’t managed to claim possession of the ball.  _Ibrahim’s still gloating over that part, the peacock_.   
            She reached over and carded a hand through his hair.  “Altaïr?”  
            “Yes, I want that, I want them all here,” he admitted softly.  “But I’ve learned that it’s better not to dwell on things I cannot have.”  
            “And why do you think you cannot have that, my love?” she asked, and again he heard that edge in her tone, like she was leading him towards something, but he wasn’t sure what.  
            He exhaled slowly and dug at the scab on his thigh with his thumbnail.  “Only Al Mualim has the power within the Order to do something like that, and even if I became Al Mualim, it would be wrong to use the power of the Mentor’s Mantle for personal, selfish, reasons.”  
            “Do you remember what your mother used to tell you?  When something seemed unsolvable when you were a child?”  She trailed her fingers down his throat, over his collarbones and across the width of his shoulders, tickling, feather-light touches that set his nerves ablaze.  
            “She told me to be like water; to flow around the obstacles in my path.”  He looked at her searchingly.  “Please Siro, help me.  I hate when you know something and are waiting for me to figure it out.”  
            She sighed and shook her head with a smile; he watched her hair ripple over her shoulders with a dissociative fascination, smoldering auburn instead of inky dark like his mother’s had been so many years ago, when he had last felt loved and safe.  
            “Altaïr.”  
            He startled at the feeling of her hand brushing against his cheek.  Her weight shifted in his lap as she embraced him and he couldn’t remember how or when she had moved from beside him on the bed to his lap in the first place.  
            “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, leaning forward to hide his face in her hair.  “I didn’t mean-”  
            “It’s okay,” she soothed, arms encircling to cradle him close.  “Do you remember what I was saying?  About Taline?”  
            “No.  I’m sorry.  I don’t, I don’t remember,” he admitted, half afraid to ask how much time had passed.  Only Kadija and Sirocco knew about how he sometimes lost time, how he’d sometimes find himself places with no memory of how he’d gotten there.  He hadn’t wanted anyone to know – to admit even to himself that it wasn’t something he just imagined from time to time – but, like Sirocco, somehow Kadija always knew about the things he would never mention on his own and he couldn’t bring himself to lie to either of them when they had directly asked him about it.  
            “It’s okay,” she repeated, drawing the fingers of one hand along the ridge of his brow in soothing strokes.  “Shall I tell you again?”  
            “Yes, please.”  He rested his cheek against her shoulder, eyelids heavy and drooping shut.  
            “I said that you should befriend Taline.  Ezio is going to be gone for some time on her contract and she’s going to feel isolated, alone; she’ll need someone to turn to – and it’s not going to be Maria.  She could be a powerful ally for keeping Ezio here, for drawing your aunt back to Alamūt.”  She absently stroked her fingers along his cheek as she spoke, like she was petting a cat.  
            “How will she help with that?” he asked drowsily, grip tightening as he cuddled her closer.  
            “Ezio will do everything in his power to stay here if she wants that badly enough; he’s half in love with her already,” Sirocco replied.  “She’ll start breeding soon and your aunt will want to be close to her children and grandchildren.  Once we get Hadassah back, your whole family will be here,” she murmured hotly in his ear.  “Just like you wanted.”  
            “What if she doesn’t like me?  I’ve never been very good at… making friends,” he mumbled.  
            “Just be kind to her, Altaïr.  It’s really not that difficult,” Sirocco sighed.  “Invite her along to dinner, introduce her to Kadija, ask how her day is going.  She’s going to be lonely without Ezio around; Assassins are wary of outsiders.”  
            “Of course we are,” he huffed.  “You never know if a stranger takes what we do _personally_.”  
            Sirocco sighed at him again.  “Don’t make jokes like that around Taline until she gets to know you better, my love.”  
            He lifted his head from her shoulder with a frown and studied her expression, trying to determine if she was teasing him.  “But I wasn’t joking,” he finally said in confusion, having found very little from her expression.  
            “I know.”  She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him sweetly.  “But most people would interpret what you just said as an attempt at humor.”  
            “Why?”  
            “Because death makes people uncomfortable, it frightens them,” she replied, stroking the backs of her fingers down his chest.  
            He accepted her explanation with a shrug; Sirocco understood people far better than he did in many ways.  
            “Have I shown you Hada’s latest letter?” he asked, rubbing his hand along her thigh.  “It’s written almost entirely in Arabic, she used French for only a few words this time.  Will you translate those for me?”  
            “Is it on your desk?  I’d like to read it,” she murmured, hands sliding down his stomach towards his groin and he was torn between wanting to retrieve the letter to show her and staying right where he was.  
            “Yes, it’s – it’s just there,” he choked out, biting back a moan at the way she was touching him.  
            “Go fetch Hada’s letter for me,” she instructed with a smile.  Her tongue was silky-sweet in his mouth when she kissed him and she pushed him away before he’d tasted his fill.  
            He groaned in protest and rose from the bed, gait stiffer than he would have liked as he padded across the room to collect the letter.  He found it without any trouble and returned to the bed.  Sirocco was sprawled on her side, watching him, lips curving with an ambiguous smile as she reached for the letter.  
            “What do those words say?” he asked, tracing his fingertips down the indent of her waist to the swell of her hips.  “Are they important?”  
            “Patience, my love,” she admonished with a smile.  “Let me read her letter.”  He hummed with annoyance as she read and she smiled at him from behind the parchment.  “You’re in such a demanding mood tonight.”  
            “I’m uncomfortable, and lonely,” he sulked, tone intentionally inviting her to coddle and fuss over him.  She declined the invitation with a quirk of her eyebrow before returning her attention to the letter.  He huffed in annoyance and flopped down beside her on the bed, curling his body around hers so that his cheek was pillowed against the indent of her waist, arm slung around her hips and holding on to her tightly.  Absently she carded a hand through his hair and he rubbed his face against her rose-petal soft skin.  He was hungry for her attention.  
            “Her written Arabic is improving by leaps and bounds,” she commented, turning to the next page of Hadassah’s letter.  
            “She’s a smart girl,” he replied promptly.  “Clever and unafraid; she’ll make a fine Assassin.”  
            “I’m sure she will, if that’s the path she chooses,” she replied distractedly as she continued reading.  “Altaïr, please stop pawing at me while I’m reading.”  
            He immediately pushed himself away from her and sat up with an offended scowl; it took her a moment to notice.   
            “My love-”  
            He stiffly rose from the bed and stalked over to the window.  The Gardens below were beautiful, lit almost exclusively by the frosty glow of starlight.  He heard her sigh followed by the rustle of fabric as she rose from the bed.   
            “I’ve offended you.”  
            “Yes.”  He watched her pale reflection in the windowpane as she approached him.   
            “I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t mean-”  
            “I wasn’t _pawing_ at you,” he burst out, shooting a hard look at her over his shoulder.  “Like some dumb, clumsy animal-”  
            “Peace, Altaïr,” she interrupted him.  She pressed a kiss against his spine and his breath caught as he felt it hum through all of his nerves.  “I chose my words poorly.”  She turned him towards her and ran her hands up over his chest to his shoulders.  “You’ve been in such a mood since dinner with your family, is something bothering you, my love?”  
            He shrugged, uncomfortable with the directness of her question.  “I’m uncomfortable and lonely,” he repeated with another half-hearted shrug.  “I’m lonely for you, Siro.”  He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for her, palms pressing into the cold stone of the window ledge.  
            “And I’m right here, Altaïr,” she murmured, drawing his mouth down to hers.  He drank in the heat of her kisses, tongue curling beneath hers, searching out of her barbs; his nails scraped against stone as his fingers curled at the feeling of one of her barbs sliding towards the back of his throat.  He groaned with frustration when she broke their kiss and stepped back.  
            “Come to bed, my love,” she coaxed.  “Let me take care of you.”  
            He was breathing too quickly; the air tasted thin and cold in his mouth after her scalding kisses and his lips were tender and swollen, puffy beneath his exploring fingertips.  “What’s wrong with me, Siro?”  
            “Nothing is wrong with you, my love, come to bed and let me give you what you need.”  He watched her hands slide over her naked skin, beckoning him, but he stayed by the window.  
            He stubbornly shook his head.  “I don’t feel quite right.  What’s happening to me?”  
            “You’ve been under a lot of stress, my love,” she soothed, approaching him again and catching hold of his hands.  “And you have been dealt a heavy loss; I would be worried if you felt perfectly fine.”  She stepped back, drawing him away from the window, towards the bed.  “Come to bed and let me make you feel better.”  
            Mechanically he obeyed, allowing her to guide him into bed.  His eyelids felt weighted, heavy, and his lips were stinging and tender.  
            “Yes, my darling love,” she cooed as he moaned against her skin, hips tensing and rolling beneath her.  
            “Siro.”  Everything with her felt so good, so right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes Season 1! I hope you've all enjoyed it.   
> Season 2 (Winter) is about 1/3 of the way written. I've also got a fair amount of work to do on my other fic Persephone Rising (Hogwarts-era TMR) so it will probably be a few months until I start positing Season 2, but have no fear, Winter is Coming   
> ;)


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